


Storm Front

by leisa_phoenix



Series: A Storm is Coming [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leisa_phoenix/pseuds/leisa_phoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the supernatural is known, the Federal Hunting Bureau protects the country's citizens against monsters.</p><p>Sam Winchester finds himself on the run from FHB Agent Hendrickson, and the FHB's sinister Collection Team led by Gordon Walker, after the mysterious death of his mother.<br/>His only allies are his brother Dean, whom he hasn't seen in years, and a semi-retired Professor of Demonology, Bobby Singer.</p><p>Can Sam stay free long enough to unravel the mysteries that surround him and his family?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

>   
Rusty's IGA Supermarket in the Hillcrest Shopping Center was closed for much of yesterday to shoot a scene for the upcoming ABC movie "The Day After". The scene, about a rush on grocery stores for provisions after a warning about nuclear war is issued, used many local residents hired as extras. Many expressed their enjoyment of seeing how movie-making works and were surprised at the long hours needed to make a short movie scene.

> One woman had to be escorted from the set when she became aggressive. "The end is beginning now and it's all because of you," she allegedly screamed as she ran towards a group of extras. The woman drew a knife and waved it in a threatening manner. Local police subdued her and took her to the police station for questioning. Mary Winchester, a local woman, was in the threatened group. "It was frightening," she told our reporter. "She seemed to believe this was all real." Police have given no further details of the incident. 

> _The Lawrence Journal-World, Tuesday August 31, 1982_

> * * *

**Then:**

_November 2, 1983_

Dean sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes, wondering what had woken him. He looked around his bedroom but his toys were all on their shelves, the clock on the wall ticking quietly. Daddy had left the book he'd been reading to Dean on the chair beside his bed, open to the page he'd stopped at when Dean fell asleep. Then he noticed the bedroom door was open halfway, which was strange because the hall light made his room quite bright. Almost like morning, but Dean could see it was dark outside the window and he realized it was actually quite late. Late enough that good boys should be fast asleep in their bed. 

Dean chewed his bottom lip as he wondered why Daddy had left the door open and whether he'd get in trouble if he got up and closed it. It was bright enough to play with his toys, really it was and he knew he couldn't go back to sleep knowing that. But he wasn't supposed to get up except to go to the bathroom. Maybe he could go do that and close the door on his way back? He was a big boy now and allowed to go to the bathroom by himself. 

Huffing, Dean climbed out of bed and headed into the hallway. A wail from Sammy's nursery stopped him in his tracks. Sammy was fussing when he should be asleep like his big brother had been. Sammy did that sometimes and Mommy said it was because he was still too little to know about bedtimes and Dean had to be a good big brother and show Sammy what it meant by going to bed himself without fuss every night. 

Dean looked towards Mommy's bedroom. She should be coming to see why Sammy was crying, but he couldn't hear her. Chewing his lip again, Dean slowly walked to her bedroom. The door was open and he could see nobody was inside. Even more slowly, he went towards the stairs, unsure if he'd be in trouble if Mommy found him there. She got mad if he went near the stairs without her watching. 

Dean stopped and listened. He was dismayed to hear angry voices coming from below. He couldn't make out the words, but the tone made his tummy hurt and he wanted to give Mommy and Daddy a hug to make them feel better. Hugs always made _him_ feel better. 

Going down the stairs alone would only get him yelled at, though he _knew_ he could do it without falling. He could call out, but there was something about the voices which made him want to hide away instead. Dean fidgeted, undecided, but another cry from Sammy made up his mind. Dean turned and ran to the nursery. He'd watched Mommy soothe Sammy back to sleep many times and was confident he could do the same. He was Sammy's big brother after all. It was Dean's job to look out for Sammy. 

Dean stopped in the doorway of Sammy's room, surprised to find Daddy there already, standing at the crib. He'd thought Daddy had been down with Mommy. Maybe the angry voices had just been the TV? That was a happy thought. Dean was again undecided. Should he scuttle back into bed and snuggle under his Batman blanket, or should he help Daddy with Sammy? Daddy worked a lot and got home late and didn't have Dean's experience at looking after the baby. 

"Sshhh", hushed the figure as Sammy snuffled and Dean suddenly realized the man by the crib in the dark room wasn't Daddy. Mommy and Daddy wouldn't let anyone bad into the house so Dean took a step into the room. The man turned to him though Dean knew he didn't make any noise. He was very good at "creeping around", Mommy said. He ignored the fact she didn't always sound happy about that. 

"Hello Dean," the man greeted him softly. In the dim light from the hall his eyes glowed a strange yellow color. 

Dean had never seen anything like them before. He didn't know why they made him feel afraid, but they did. The _man_ made him feel afraid. Dean drew a breath to scream out for Daddy. 

No sound came out, no matter how hard Dean tried. 

"Sshhh," the man repeated. "None of that, Deano." 

Frightened, Dean tried to run away, but his legs weren't working either. Nothing was, and Dean tried to squirm as the feeling of being trapped increased. 

"I told your mother nothing bad would happen if I was undisturbed," the man told him quietly. 

Dean stopped fighting for a moment, confused. Why would Mommy let a bad man visit Sammy? Maybe she didn't know he was bad? Dean started struggling again. He had to tell Mommy. 

Shaking his head, the man stepped away from the crib. "You shouldn't have come in here, Deano." 

Dean wanted to feel better that the bad man wasn't so close to Sammy anymore, but he was too terrified. 

"You really wouldn't make much of a message, would you?" the man said as he crouched down to look at Dean more closely. The sickly yellow of his eyes held Dean's attention as he shook helplessly. 

The man simply watched as Dean tried to squirm out of the invisible ropes holding him in place. 

"You could be useful anyway," the man finally decided. He gestured at Dean, who was flung into the hall wall opposite the nursery door. He wanted to cry out 'cause that hurt, but he still couldn't make a sound. 

"Have a good flight, Dean," the man chuckled. 

Dean was jerked back into the center of the hall by an invisible hand and was turned to face the stairwell at the other end. Then he was flying through the air. Towards the stairs. 

Helpless, terrified, silenced. 

* * *

Mary Winchester was trying very hard to hold onto her temper, with only partial success. Her husband, John, could be a real ass sometimes. 

Especially when he was being as stubborn as a mule. 

She'd wanted him home when he'd moved out a few months back, but now she was wondering why. 

"Mike agrees with me!" John all but shouted at her. 

"It's not Mike's family that will suffer if the business goes sour, John," she argued back. 

She was distracted by something coming down the stairs behind John. For a moment she thought it was a ball thudding down. Her first thought was that Dean had gotten up and was playing. She frowned, ready to go and yell at Dean for being out of bed. Then she realized it _was_ Dean. 

"Oh God!" Mary rushed past her confused husband to the tiny, battered body that lay far too still at the foot of the stairs. 

"Dean!" John reached towards his son, but pulled back before he did. Both of them were afraid of making things worse. "I'll call an ambulance." He ran to the phone. 

Mary stayed kneeling by Dean's body, hands hovering in the air, helpless. Dean was breathing, but his limbs were horribly twisted. 

_Nonononononononono_

John gave her a nudge to get her attention. "The ambulance will be here soon. You'd better grab Sammy." 

Mary wanted to object, to scream, to hit him for being so calm, though she could see his hands trembling and knew the calm was a thin veneer. He was as terrified as she was. 

He nudged her again and she bit back the bitter words she wanted to hurl at him, nodding instead. Carefully stepping over the broken body of her eldest son, she went to grab her youngest. The wail of a siren was audible. 

The sound pushed her to hurry. There could be no delay in getting Dean to the hospital. Running into Sammy's nursery, she grabbed the diaper bag and threw in a few essentials. Mary hoisted it onto her shoulder and scooped a fussing Sammy out of the crib, wrinkling her nose at his gassy, sulfurous smell. 

"Ugh. That's one dirty diaper you've got there, baby, but it's going to have to wait. Your big brother hurt himself and we need to get him to help," she explained, clutching Sammy to her other shoulder. 

The front door banged downstairs and Mary hurried down to meet the ambulance men. 

The race to the hospital was a blur. Mary sat huddled against the rear of the ambulance, gripping Sammy tightly. She needed the act of rocking him and petting him to keep her emotions under control. 

Dean looked so tiny, so fragile, on a backboard with a neck brace. Mary choked back a sob, again. 

_What could have possessed him to hurtle down the stairs like that? He knew better!_

A chill rippled over her. Possession? No, not possible. The house had solid wards. She'd modified them herself specially. The children were safe from that kind of threat. 

The hospital lights were harsh and cutting after the darkness outside. The smell of antiseptic stung her nostrils and made her stomach lurch. Dean had already disappeared into the depths of the building and they were directed by a harried nurse into a waiting area. 

Mary swallowed a scream of frustration. She wanted to be with Dean and waiting was unbearable. 

She clutched Sammy tighter and he squirmed in distress, letting out a wail of complaint. Mary tried jiggling him, but that made him cry louder. She felt her grip on her emotions slipping, so she didn't object beyond a single clutch when John gently prized Sammy from her arms. 

She sank onto a hard chair and watched John pace the room, focused on soothing the baby. A nurse startled her when she softly spoke. 

"I'm sorry, but could you fill in some forms for me, please? It'll make things go smoothly." Mary took the clipboard and pen and the nurse retreated back to her desk. 

Mary glanced at the date on the form in front of her and froze, dread curling through her belly, leaving nausea in its wake. Breathing was suddenly a chore and tremors shook her hands. 

It _must_ be a coincidence. Surely. 

But she couldn't make herself believe that. She'd been facing the stairs and had seen Dean hurled down. No mere slip could account for that fall. 

_What have I done?_

She'd thought the house was protected. No one had needed to know what she'd done all those years before. She hadn't bartered her soul away so there was no residue on it for the psychics to pick up. She'd avoided the supernatural completely. But the supernatural had found her. And found Dean. 

_Why did it want Dean?_

Resolve filled Mary, steadying her hands and breathing, banishing the nausea. It couldn't have Dean. It wouldn't have Dean. She'd make sure of it. She'd been careless, not vigilant enough. That was over now. She'd watch over him. Whatever it took. 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One**

>   
> 
> 
> In other news, Geoffrey Robertson, QC, will be arguing in the UK Court of Appeal today for the right of author J.K. Rowling to publish a series of children's books about a school of wizardry. Publication has been blocked by the government due to the extensive use of magic in the books. "It is ridiculous these novels are banned," said the renowned QC in an interview with the BBC last week. "Children know the difference between cartoon violence and real violence. Likewise they will understand that the magic represented in these books is fantasy and not reality." The fight to publish "Harry Potter and the Philospher's Stone" has been ongoing since 1997.

_BBC World News, Wednesday November 3, 1999_

> **Now:**

_November 2, 2005_

Mary was concerned about Sam. 

It was completely unlike him to ditch school, let alone come home for an entire week in the middle of semester. It was his final undergraduate year at Stanford and he'd been working hard, aiming to get into Law School there. 

He'd been upbeat when they spoke on the phone a month earlier, studying hard for the LSATs. Then he'd flown in unexpectedly on the Saturday before Halloween, looking like he hadn't slept properly in weeks. Sam wouldn't tell her what was wrong, either, which wasn't like him. Sam was very open with her. She'd always answered his questions and he always brought all his problems to her to discuss, especially once it was just the two of them. 

It wasn't his studies. Sam had aced the LSAT exam, getting 174, which put him in the top 1% of candidates. He'd admitted he had an interview the next Monday at Stanford. If he aced it, and she proudly knew he would, his future would be set. 

It wasn't a girl either. Sam dated occasionally, but was adamant he wasn't going to get into a serious relationship until graduate school. Mary doubted love could be scheduled like that, but so far Sam hadn't shown any sign of looking to settle down with anyone. 

When prying made him withdraw into himself, Mary had retreated. Instead, she cooked his favorite meals and kept the conversation light all week. Sam had gradually relaxed, gradually become willing to let her out of his sight. It was Wednesday night now and he'd booked a flight back to California for Saturday, still without telling her what had spooked him so badly. 

Sam had gone to bed at 9.30, which was absurdly early for a young man. It said volumes to Mary about how exhausted her son was. Although it was only a little after 10, Mary decided that bed wasn't a bad idea. She changed into a nightgown and went back down to the kitchen for a glass of water. The lights flickered as a storm started raging outside. Mary frowned. She hadn't heard a storm mentioned on the weather forecast. 

Heading to her bedroom, Mary stopped at the open door of Sam's room to look in on her son, wondering what was troubling him. She frowned at the tall shadow beside the bed. What on earth...? 

"Mary. How wonderful to see you again." The shadow resolved itself into a man. 

A man whose eyes flashed yellow. 

"You!" she gasped. She looked at Sam, but he was deeply asleep, unaware of his both his mother's presence and his demonic visitor. 

"What have you done to him?" she demanded. 

"Nothing this time. I did it all when he was six months old," he shrugged. 

Mary froze. But nothing had ever happened to _Sam_. This wasn't making sense. 

"But... Dean..." She was confused. 

The demon suddenly laughed. "What? You thought it was _Dean_ I came to visit back then? Come on. He's irrelevant. Though he did make a wonderful distraction that first time. You'd been warned not to interrupt." 

"You nearly killed him!" Mary shouted, diverted momentarily from her concern for Sam by memories of Dean's tiny broken body at the base of the stairs and the frantic rush to the hospital in the ambulance. 

He shrugged. "He's not important. You didn't suspect my interest in Sam. I even visited him again eleven years ago and you didn't notice." 

"Eleven?" She'd been careful to watch over Dean ten years after his "accident", sitting up all night with holy water and an illegal exorcism at the ready. She'd even sent Sam for a sleepover with friends to keep him from harm's way, while John was out of town at a small business meeting. 

"Ten years for the deal, of course. That's the rules. After that though..." The demon shrugged, a very human gesture for an inhuman being. "What can I say?" he grinned. "I'm into sunspot cycles." 

Mary reeled at the knowledge she'd been vigilant of the wrong son - and at the wrong times. 

"You slept like lambs, just like little Sammy did," the demon mused. "Or not so little now. He's coming along very nicely indeed." He touched Sam's cheek and her son twitched. 

"Get away from him," Mary demanded, frightened. 

"Too late, Mary. _Much_ too late. He's on the path of my choosing now." The words sent shivers of dread through her. What had he done to her baby boy? 

He was watching her with amusement. "You did better than I ever hoped, you know. You alienated Sam from the only possible obstacle in my plan - his older brother. That was a masterstroke and I admit I never saw it coming. Dean might have tried to protect Sam from me. Not that he could of course, but he might have been a nuisance. You eliminated him from the equation very nicely." 

Mary felt sick at the pleasure in the demon's voice. She'd driven Dean away to protect Sam. To find out those painful actions had been exactly what the demon wanted was devastating. That she had _helped_ the demon in its plans for her youngest son was too much to bear. 

_Demons lie_ , she tried to tell herself, desperately. But she also knew they told the truth when it was more damaging. Mary tried to push it aside. 

"You broke the deal," she accused. "You promised to keep the supernatural away from my family!" 

"No, you specified that it was to be kept away from you and John. And it was. You were both a whole state away when that werewolf found Dean." 

Had she? She couldn't remember her exact words now, though the emotions of that time were seared into her soul. She was certain she'd bargained to keep the supernatural away from... _us_. She'd said _us_ , meaning her family, but the demon was bound by her words, not her intent. It grinned at her maliciously. 

"You planned that! You wanted me to keep thinking it was Dean you wanted." And Mary had bought into it, completely. Her gut churned with regret as her final words to her eldest slammed through her memory. _If you walk out that door, you don't ever come back._

"Actually I had nothing to do with it, but it served my purposes nicely. It's almost like there's a higher power at work in all this." The demon smiled beatifically. "And not the one humans expect." 

"It was _my_ deal. Why didn't you take _me_?" she angrily asked. 

"I need children, Mary. Fine, strong children like Sammy here. He's grown into a fine specimen, hasn't he? And he's shown quite a talent recently." 

Talent? What talent? Was that why Sam had come to visit? Mary dredged up the Rituale Romanum from the memories of her youth and started to spit the words out at the demon, frantic to save Sam. 

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus." Mary's breath seized in her throat, then was expelled violently as she was slammed into the wall and pinned there. 

"None of that. It's time for the next step in Sam's development - and you have a starring role. I was hoping for a girlfriend. The love of his life. But that strong bond you've fostered with Sam is perfect for my needs." He gestured and she slid up the wall. 

Mary was helpless in the grip of his power. Realizing her life was about to end she closed her eyes and prayed. The deal she'd made all those years ago made it unlikely any heavenly power would listen, but she had to try. For her son's sake. For both her sons' sakes. 

_Sam._

_Dean. I'm sorry._

* * *

Sam had gone to bed early, praying the nightmare that had been plaguing him would leave him alone for once. 

It had started several weeks earlier, a terrifyingly vivid dream of his mother pinned to the ceiling, a vivid red gash across her abdomen. Then fire. Always fire. Devouring, menacing fire. He'd thought it some weird stress dream, like the ones where you find yourself naked at a party, or find out you've got an exam for a subject you hadn't realized you were taking and hadn't studied for. Just... worse. 

But it had come back a few days later. And then again. And again. For the last week it had been nightly, leaving him shaken and sweaty and unable to get back to sleep. He dreaded nights now. 

He finally couldn't bear it anymore. He fled home, hoping that seeing his Mom would stop the dreams. They didn't, but they were only every other night now and seeing her had helped settle his anxiety. Her concern had been touching, but Sam couldn't bring himself to tell her about the nightmares. 

She'd stopped pushing, to his relief, and the week had passed uneventfully. Sam felt steady enough to book a flight back to California, ready to prepare for his Law School interview the following week. 

He didn't open his eyes when he woke, uncertain what had dragged him from the most peaceful sleep he'd had in a month. A rumble of thunder sounded outside and he realized there was a storm brewing. Then he felt water drip onto his forehead. 

_What the hell?_ Sam frowned and felt another drop. Opening his eyes, his breath caught as he felt a surge of terror. 

His mother, on the ceiling above him. Blood dripping from a gash across her midriff. 

"No!" he surged up, reaching for her. But fire suddenly erupted around her, leaping at him, driving him back. 

The flames lashed at him, the heat blistering. It felt more real than the dreams ever had before and Sam realized that it was _real_ this time. 

"No!" he shouted, before choking on smoke and searing air. The fire whipped out at him again, almost as if it was trying to herd him from the room. Sam stumbled back, his mother now lost to sight in the inferno raging across the ceiling. 

There was another surge from the flames when the window exploded out from its frame and Sam retreated further, now in the doorway. 

He didn't want to leave, guilt and terror winding through his gut. But as the heat became overwhelming he was grabbed by the wrist and thrown from the room. Sam didn't notice the pain as his bones broke, but moved with the momentum. He stumbled out of his childhood home, eyes watering freely as coughs wracked through him. 

* * *

Sam sat on the curb on the opposite side of the road, numbly watching the firefighters work on the flames still occasionally flaring from the window of his room. Red and blue lights painted the night in lurid stripes as his thoughts circled endlessly. 

Neighbors had tried to talk to him, but he'd barely been aware of their questions and sympathy. The hand on his shoulder was the first thing to register for an unknown, unending period of time. Sam looked up at a uniformed policeman and his stomach lurched. 

"Son? Are you with me?" 

Sam nodded, slowly becoming aware of his singed face and seared throat. Then he noticed his wrist was aching and his feet were wet. Someone had draped a damp blanket over his half naked body which made him feel clammy. The chilly air suddenly registered and he clutched the blanket tightly around him with the hand that wasn't throbbing. A t-shirt and boxers were no defense against the harsh cold of a wet November night. 

He made no attempt to stand and the policeman crouched down beside him. 

"Can you tell me what happened? Was there someone else inside?" 

Sam nodded and hunched in on himself. 

"My mom," he mumbled, looking down. He lifted his head suddenly, startling the man who'd leaned in to hear Sam better. The policeman leaned back a little to avoid getting head-butted. 

"My mom was in there. I couldn't save her." The guilt was as agonizing as a lash. 

"Do you know how the fire started?" The questions were quiet and calm, but that didn't help settle the swooping feeling in Sam's gut. 

"She was on the ceiling. I don't know how. Then there was fire," Sam rasped. 

The policemen drew a sharp breath. 

"On the ceiling?" 

Sam nodded and felt another clap on his shoulder as the policeman stood. The man wandered a short distance away, getting his phone out. Sam watched indifferently as he placed a call to the local office of the Federal Hunting Bureau. A supernatural death fell into their jurisdiction. 

Once the call was finished the policeman leaned over in front of Sam again. "Come on, son. We'll get you to the hospital for a checkup." 

Sam shook his head, unwilling to leave, but the policeman urged him up with a hand under his elbow. Sam lurched up and allowed himself to be led to a waiting ambulance. His body might have been prickling with various hurts, but he was numb inside. 

The house was a steaming husk and the firemen were packing up to leave. 

There was no reason to stay. There was nothing left for him here now. 

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two**

>   
>  Federal Hunting Bureau Press Agent Wilkinson spoke briefly to journalists Friday about the portrayal of the FHB in the recent Hollywood summer blockbuster "Saturn Descending". "It's clearly nonsense," she told reporters. "Hollywood likes to choose a government agency as boogeymen. In the 80's it was the CIA, in the 90's the NSA and now it's us." In "Saturn Descending" a Collection Operations team from the FHB ruthlessly hunts down a human who has uncovered evidence that their department is being used to assassinate opponents of the administration.

_Boston Globe, Friday June 20, 2003_

> _November 3, 2005_

FHB Special Agent Victor Henriksen automatically tightened his tie as he walked through Lawrence hospital. It had been a long night and was far from over despite the sun clearing the horizon to the east. He thought longingly of a shower for a few moments, then turned his thoughts back to the case. He still had the victim's son to interview. 

The hospital was quiet this morning. They were normally busy places in his experience, but it was too early for visiting hours and too late for the overnight emergency room crowd. Victor glanced at a corridor corner mirror to assess his appearance. He'd supervised a specialized forensics team in the smoldering ruins of the Winchester house for half the night, but didn't look too rumpled. Undoubtedly he reeked of smoke, but that couldn't be helped. 

A quick question to the floor nurse gave him directions to the office where, he checked his notes, Samuel Winchester was waiting for him. Twenty-two years old, student at Stanford University, no record. Treated for smoke inhalation, shock, a broken left wrist and some minor first and second degree burns after watching his mother die on the ceiling of the family home. Victor shook his head and put his professional face on. If the boy had any answers, he wanted to hear them. 

He found the correct door, gave a perfunctory knock and walked into a small, windowless office, furnished with a large but plain wooden desk, a couple of uncomfortable looking 'ergonomic' chairs, and an overflowing bookcase. 

"Samuel Winchester?" Victor watched with interest as a tall young man with moderately long, floppy brown hair unfolded from a slump over the desk. He was wearing hospital scrubs, no doubt donated by the staff. Intelligent but slightly glazed hazel eyes assessed him back. Clearly the shock had faded and exhaustion was setting in. 

"I'm Special Agent Henriksen from the Federal Hunting Bureau," he said, offering his hand to shake. 

"It's Sam," the young man rasped back, his throat abraded from smoke and the resulting oxygen treatment. He stood to shake Victor's hand and he changed the assessment to very tall young man. 

Sam showed no reaction to the silver and iron rings Victor wore as their hands clasped. Victor passed him a business card and Sam sat down again as he studied it. 

"Would you like some coffee or tea for that throat?" Victor asked. More testing wouldn't go astray. 

"Water, please?" Sam put the card down and picked at the cast on his left wrist. 

Victor gave a small smile and turned to grab a bottle of water from his pack. He pretended to break the seal before handing it to Sam. The young man gulped down the Holy Water with no ill effect. In the circumstances, that had been his most important test and Victor relaxed. 

"I'm here to ask you some questions about your mother's death," he said once Sam put the bottle down. "Could you tell me what you saw?" Sam hunched over, automatically curling in on himself. "Any little detail could help," Victor encouraged. 

Tears came to Sam's eyes, but did not fall, as he recounted being woken by his mother's blood dripping onto his face. The sight of her on the ceiling. The fire that erupted around her. 

"I'm sorry to ask this Sam, but when you woke, was your mother still alive?" Victor kept his voice soft and sympathetic, but Sam still flinched violently. 

"I... I'm not sure. Her eyes were open, but she was just staring at me." Sam's voice was shaky and soft. "Past me?" 

"So she didn't say anything?" Sam shook his head. 

"No, nothing." There was deep grief in his voice. 

"And you didn't see anyone else in the room?" 

Now Sam's head shake was weary. "I didn't look. I don't think so. But I was looking at Mom." That made sense to Victor, however disappointing it was. It might not keep the meat suit long, but a description would have given him a place to start looking. 

"How did you break your wrist?" Victor nodded towards the cast. 

"I don't remember. Maybe I fell off the bed?" Sam thought about it, brow furrowed. "I think something grabbed me? Threw me from the room?" Sam said slowly, sounding very uncertain. Given the trauma that wasn't a surprise. 

"But you didn't see what?" 

"No," Sam shook his head. "It's all a blur, but I don't remember seeing anyone else there." Sam looked squarely at Victor. "Do you know what did it?" 

The sulfur found at the scene made it clear a demon was involved, but that wasn't for a civilian to know about. "It's early days, Sam. That's why I'm trying to find out as much as I can from you." 

Sam slumped down, disappointed. 

"You're a student at Stanford?" Sam nodded, staring at the wood grain patterns on the desk. "What were you doing home? It's mid-semester isn't it?" It was a point that intrigued him. A discrepancy. Discrepancies were always interesting. 

The twitch was minor, but Victor was closely watching. "I was pretty stressed about an interview I've got next week. I came home to get my head together." It sounded reasonable and yet Victor's instincts were pinging. For the first time in the interview, he had a sense that Sam was hiding something from him. 

Maybe it was an innocent something, but maybe it wasn't. Had Sam had a hitchhiker in his body? A psychic might be able to determine that. It was unusual for the host to not know they were being ridden, but not completely unheard of. 

Victor looked down at his notes. "What do you know about the house wards?" he asked, moving the questioning from the personal. Let Sam think he bought the lie. He was interested in the wards anyway. They had been... tweaked... in particularly unusual ways. Nothing that would weaken them, quite the opposite, but he hadn't seen anything quite like them before. 

Sam frowned. "Not much. My mother was very anti-supernatural. Wouldn't even have anything to do with hunters." He gave an apologetic shrug and Victor nodded, but his eyes narrowed at the information. It was common for civilians to shun the supernatural, but avoidance of hunters was sometimes a sign of illegal dealings. 

"The wards weren't exactly normal," he prodded but Sam just gave a shrug and shake of the head. 

"I don't know anything about that," he insisted. "I've been away nearly four years. I have no idea what she did to the wards." Actually the wards in question were much older than that. Over 20 years old at least. But Sam didn't need to know that either. 

"I see," he said and Sam bristled, apparently thinking Victor was accusing his mother of something. 

"Would you mind staying a little longer?" Victor asked, deciding to call the local FHB office and see if they had a psychic available. 

"Sure," he muttered sullenly. 

Victor smiled benignly. "Thanks. It won't be for long," he said and headed out to make some calls. 

* * *

Sam rocked slightly on the chair. He'd lied to the FHB agent. Had he realized Sam had lied? Sam didn't know. He was just so very tired. He rubbed his eyes and closed them. Just for a minute. 

Sam roused from a light doze at a soft knock on the door. He blinked at the man who came in. 

"Sammy?" The name registered suddenly and Sam bolted upright. 

"Dean?" Sam was incredulous. It had been years since he'd seen his older brother. Dean's face was squarer than he remembered, the voice much deeper. The sun-tipped locks were now close cut and brown. But the large green hazel eyes were unmistakable. "What? How?" He didn't know what question to ask first. 

"I heard about Mom." Dean ducked his head and glanced around the room. Sam's heart sank. He hadn't thought about calling Dean, or Dad. It simply hadn't occurred to him. 

"I'm sorry. I should have called," Sam said. He wasn't sure he had a number for them, but he wasn't about to admit that. They were the ones that had left, after all. 

"S'ok," Dean shrugged and looked him over critically. "I've called Dad. I wasn't sure what happened exactly. There was a fire? Are you ok?" His eyes had stopped on the cast on Sam's wrist. 

Sam wished he had long sleeves to pull down over it, but the scrubs were short sleeved. "I'm fine. Um, yeah there was a fire. It was supernatural. Mom, uh, Mom was on the ceiling of my room." Sam glanced at Dean's face and cringed at how pale he looked. 

"She was burned alive?" Dean stepped back in horror. 

"No! No, I'm pretty sure she was already dead. There, um, there was a gash," he gestured across his belly. 

Dean was still pale. "Are you sure you're ok?" he demanded, stepping closer. 

Sam shrugged. "Maybe?" He went on when he saw Dean's frown. "Physically yeah, just some smoke and burns. Broken wrist. But I keep seeing it, y'know?" 

Dean nodded, his expression still concerned. "How'd you break your wrist?" 

Sam ducked his head as a core of cold numbness melted away. He might not have thought of calling his brother, but it felt good to have him here. 

"I'm not sure. It's all kinda confused. Mom and fire. I don't really remember getting out of the house." 

"I'm so sorry, man," Dean told him earnestly, his voice catching. "I can't believe she's gone." He looked away, throat working. 

"You seem pretty broken up," Sam observed. It wasn't _quite_ an accusation. Dean gave a shrug, his eyes wandering around the room again. 

"We didn't get on," Dean admitted, rubbing his neck. "Obviously. But still, she was Mom. I always thought that maybe, one day, we could talk about things. Clear the air and stuff. But now... Now it'll never happen." 

Sam nodded sympathetically. "That sucks, man." 

He wanted to make things better for Dean but didn't know how. He barely knew his big brother. Had barely known him when he was living at home, really. He'd been too young to pay much attention to other people's dramas and a four-year age difference felt like decades to a small boy. Their mother hadn't encouraged a close relationship between them either, considering Dean a bad influence on his little brother. 

But that was no excuse now. He could make the effort to get to know Dean, at least a little, before Dean went back to whatever life it was he had now. Maybe they could patch things together enough to keep contact. As completely alone as Sam felt now, he wanted this, desperately. A connection to family. 

* * *

Dean picked up the business card on the desk, avoiding Sammy's eyes. 

He was unexpectedly uncomfortable. News of Mary's death had hit him harder than he'd expected given how many years he'd had to get used to their estrangement. 

Huh, Victor Henriksen was running the case. Dean knew the guy a little, mostly by reputation though he'd worked with him once. He was careful and methodical and stubborn as hell. He'd dig until he got to the bottom of things. 

"That's the guy who interviewed me," Sam's voice broke into his thoughts. "Said it was still early days and all that." A standard answer. Dean wasn't surprised. Civilians weren't really kept in the loop. 

Sammy wasn't a chubby 12-year-old anymore, Dean reflected as he studied his little - or not so little - brother. He looked more like a Sasquatch with his long, gangly limbs and floppy hair. Sammy's face had lengthened and gained definition. Dean had to smile slightly: the chin still looked like it would thrust forward stubbornly. 

There was something surprisingly waif-like about him though, despite the height those long legs promised. Maybe it was the way he was hugging himself as if cold. Well, maybe he was cold. Those scrubs looked pretty thin. 

"Here." Dean took off his leather jacket and passed it to his brother. He still had a t-shirt and flannel shirt on, which was more than enough indoors. 

"Thanks," Sammy said gratefully. "I haven't been able to go back yet to see if my clothes bag made it." 

"I can go see if there's some jeans I can get for you. Shoes too," Dean offered with a glance down at his little brother's bare feet. Sammy looked embarrassed, but nodded. 

"Please. I'll pay you back," he offered. The kid looked wiped, Dean thought. Must be exhausted to say idiot things like that. 

"Dude! No need," Dean scoffed with a shake of his head. "I'll be back in a while. Hang in there, ok?" 

Sam nodded and Dean fled the room. Sammy really did need clothes, but Dean couldn't deny he was glad to be out there. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, seeing his brother after so long and in these circumstances, but it wasn't such an epic level of awkwardness. 

Dean headed for the main entrance of the hospital. He'd need to ask where the nearest Wal-Mart or clothes store was. When he'd left Lawrence he'd sworn never to return and he wasn't sure where anything was anymore. 

He couldn't help feeling the irony. His mother had been rabidly anti-supernatural, to the point of being rabidly anti-hunting. But she, of all people in Lawrence, had died at the hands of the supernatural. What were the odds? It wasn't like deadly supernatural attacks occurred every week! 

An unhappily familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. Dean frowned as he looked around to see where it was coming from. What the hell was Gordon Walker doing in Lawrence? He'd thought the douchebag had gotten his walking orders after that massive screw up with a vampire nest a year or so ago. 

Dean's eyebrows rose when he also heard Henriksen's voice. _What's up with that?_ he wondered, cautiously sidling up the corridor to the room the voices were coming from. 

"We're here for Samuel Winchester," Walker stated, sending chills down Dean's spine. A careful glance into the room showed Henriksen confronting a black clad, heavily armed team. Dean ducked back and leaned against the wall, horrified. A Collection team was very bad news. Hearing they were here for Sammy was the worst news possible. 

"He passed all the tests for humanity," Henriksen argued. "On what grounds is he being Collected?" 

How the hell had Gordon Walker, of all people, ended up in Collection? 

Dean didn't listen to the answer - if Walker did answer, which would be a surprise. He ran back to Sam immediately. 

* * *

"C'mon. We need to go. Now!" 

Sam stood, startled at his brother's abrupt entrance. Dean paused, blinking at Sam's full height, then grabbed his elbow and tried to tug him towards the door. 

"What? Why?" Sam demanded, refusing to budge. 

"You want to find out what really happened to Mom? Then we gotta go, dude. Right now." Dean tugged again at Sam's arm. 

"No." Sam set his weight back and held his ground. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean." He was confused at his brother's insistence. "What are you talking about?" 

Dean kept glancing at the door, unsettling Sam further. "There's an FHB Collection team here, Sam, and they're here for _you_. We have to go, now!" 

Sam blanched. 

"But, why?" A thought hit him. They couldn't possibly know, could they? Maybe they could, maybe they had a psychic with them. Cold sweat started trickling down his back. 

"I don't know why!" Dean spat at him. "Something's wrong here, Sammy. Very wrong. But we won't find out what if you're in a cell somewhere, or dead. We. Have. To. Go." Dean punctuated his words with shoves. Sam, frightened by his brother's panic, yielded. 

He let Dean lead him through a maze of quiet corridors in a circuitous route to a side exit. Dean paused, scanning the parking lot, before leading Sam outside into the early morning sunlight. Sam squinted and hunched down as he followed his older brother towards the back of the lot, feeling conspicuous in bare feet and scrubs. He tugged the leather jacket closer. 

He waited for shouts to erupt behind him, or, worse, the crack of a shot. Curling in on himself as much as possible he hurried behind Dean, trying to avoid the puddles of rain water that had pooled in the larger ruts. Had it rained last night? He couldn't remember. 

Sam faltered a moment when he saw the car Dean had stopped at. 

"That's Dad's car," he said incredulously as he looked over the rain-spattered black '67 Impala. It had been years since he'd seen this car, but he would recognize it anywhere. 

Dean unlocked the passenger side for Sam before heading for the driver's side. He was still scanning their surroundings. "She's mine now. I worked two summers at the garage to buy her off Dad," Dean told him distractedly. 

Sam settled into the car and waited until they'd left the parking lot to ask Dean where they were going. 

Dean chewed on his lip. "I'm not sure." Sam blinked then nodded. 

Collection teams were feared for their shadowy extra-judicial powers which included, controversially, lethal force against suspected supernaturals. Most of what he knew came from movies, which were undoubtedly exaggerated. However, he'd also had one class with a professor who told some pretty damn scary stories. 

For the moment anywhere but here looked fine to him. 

* * *

Sam expected Dean to head for the interstate but was surprised when he turned off and headed for a secondary highway. Instead of getting the hell out of Lawrence, his brother was eyeing the string of motels that lined this section of the road. 

"We're not staying here?" he blurted, incredulous. 

"Not for long," Dean replied absently. "You need clothes though, and dude, you stink something awful. You need to get cleaned up." 

"It can't wait?" Sam couldn't believe it, but sniffed at himself at Dean's grimace. Yeah, okay, he'd gotten used to the smoky smell of his hair, and it was pretty gross, but there were guys _chasing_ him for God's sake. _Hunters_ chasing him. 

"An hour, Sam, no more than that. It's not like they're going to close the highway or anything." Sam wasn't buying it. 

"Why not?" he demanded. 

Dean shot him a look. "This is real life, man, not the movies. Cops aren't gonna throw up roadblocks at a moment's notice." He nodded towards a clean-looking mid-price chain motel. "This should do." 

"Right. 'Cause nice places like this rent by the hour." Sam's sarcasm only gave his brother a moment's pause. 

Dean shrugged. "I'll tell 'em we've been driving all night and need to crash for a few hours. Well, not literally. That's why we're stopping." Dean's rambling wasn't helping Sam's nerves. "I'll offer to pay for a full night if they insist," he added. Dean got out of the car and stretched widely before heading to reception, leaving Sam jittering in the passenger seat. Clothes would be good, being clean awesome, but he still felt like a noose was tightening around him and he just wanted to be _gone_. 

Dean returned a few minutes later with a key. Their room was on the first floor around the back and Sam relaxed a little once they were out of sight of the road. Sam slipped out of the car with a nervous glance around and hurried into the room, catching the key Dean threw him. The room was bland, but the shower looked decent. 

"Here," Dean said and Sam turned, automatically catching the small bundle that was thrown to him. Socks wrapped around a shampoo bottle. "I'll get you some clothes while you wash up. What size should I get?" 

Dean looked awkward and Sam was grateful he wasn't covering his nervousness up with jokes, like he'd done as a teen. He felt stretched too thin for that. He told Dean his clothing and shoe sizes and retreated into the bathroom, hoping the hot water would last. 

* * *

Dean had withdrawn his meager savings from the bank and hadn't hesitated to use his credit card to buy some clothes for Sam. Hunters didn't have the power to call for bank records and they'd have to make a case to the police before they would. Besides, his next stop before returning to the hotel guaranteed his presence in Lawrence would be noted anyway, so there wasn't much use in slinking around. He needed information and knew where to get it. Nothing was adding up and he hated that. 

He was in an office area so there were lots of parked cars - all modern, overpriced junk he noted - but few people around. He wondered if he was doing the right thing, but there was no other way he could think of to get his mother's file. Dean patted the Impala fondly and headed to the square, squat, largely windowless building in the next block. Lawrence was too small a town to normally justify an FHB office, but its proximity to Stull Cemetery and its not-so-mythical Hell Gate made sure it had a reasonably large one. 

His clothes - jeans, flannel shirt, sturdy boots - were unremarkable. Field hunters wore clothes that could get muddy and bloody and have other, unpleasant-to-think-of fluids splattered on them. Dean never stopped being amused that the FHB was one of the few branches of government which paid its field operatives a modest clothing allowance, only to have most hunters spend it all in second hand clothes stores. 

The main obstacle would be the building receptionist. It was not widely known but FHB Field Office receptionists were usually psychics or sensitives. If civilians _had_ known, then they'd probably think the best strategy to avoid their thoughts being read would be to blank their mind, or concentrate on a simple image, like floating in the sea. Dean knew, from talking to a couple of psychics in a bar one night, that was guaranteed to attract their attention. Not to mention being incredibly hard to maintain while doing other things. 

The best strategy when trying to avoid the curiosity of a psychic was to think of a stream of everyday, trivial thoughts. Dean let his mind wander over the possibilities for lunch. Food was always pleasant to think about. 

The Lawrence receptionist was young and female. Her name tag read "Gwen". Dean thought she looked a bit like the kick-ass Ripley chick from Alien. His smile turned flirty automatically. 

"Good morning, Gwen." Dean cheerfully greeted her and presented his credentials. She raised an eyebrow at him, unsmiling, but took the card and scanned it. Dean was careful to keep thinking idly about lunch, rather than think about the possibility the Collectors were already onto him. A soft chime signaled acceptance and Dean stepped into the glass testing chamber that formed an air-lock style entrance to the working offices. A devil's trap was painted onto the ceiling. 

A standard set of tests followed - a camera for eye flash, a multi-metal plate for sensitivities, holy water spritz for possession - then he was released into the building itself. Dean had never been into the Lawrence FHB building before, but they were all built on the same general plan. 

Dean headed for the general access terminals. He wanted to download copies of all the FHB files on his mother's death and, if possible, a copy of the Collection Writ for Sam. With luck his path would get him past the locals without them noticing him. His entry to the building had been recorded but he hoped it took Walker a while to think to check the logs. 

* * *

Gwen Campbell waited until Dean was well inside the building before placing a call on her cell phone. 

"Dean Winchester's here," she said after a brusque greeting from the male at the other end of the call. 

"No, sir, he arrived alone," she answered to his question. 

Her instructions were delivered brusquely and she listened closely. 

"Yes, sir," but she was cut off by a dial tone. That was usual and she felt no particular resentment. Her loyalty to the man she'd called was absolute. She'd chafed at being the one stuck behind a desk - Gwen had been raised since childhood to hunt and was most at ease in the field - but despite the drudgery and boredom she'd never once complained. Nor did she question her orders. 

When Dean came out fifteen minutes later, Gwen nodded to him absently and kept altering computer records. 

* * *

Sam had to admit he felt much better once the hot water finally gave out, driving him out of the shower. The smell his hair had given off when the water hit it had made him want to throw up and he'd washed it over and over until it was replaced by the scent of Dean's shampoo. It hadn't been easy with one hand and the cast had gotten splashed a couple of times in the process, but it was worth the hassle to be clean. 

There was no comb so he used his fingers to settle his shoulder length hair into a semblance of order. Sam hesitated at putting the scrubs back on. They didn't smell great, but he didn't want to hang around in a towel either. Dean should be back soon though, so he left them off and laid back on the bed, eyes closed, feeling exhaustion nipping at him. It had been a long, stressful night. 

A sound outside jerked him awake and he opened his eyes, breath catching as he found himself looking at the ceiling. The flashback had him sitting up, breathing heavily. Carefully not looking up, Sam dragged the scrubs and socks on and headed for the door, unable to stay in the room a moment longer. He threw Dean's jacket over the top, grabbed the key and all but ran out of the room. 

He paused just outside, not sure of where to go. Stepping cautiously on the gravel, he headed for the road, hoping to see his brother coming. There was no sign of Dean, but across the road and a few doors down was a diner. Unexpectedly his stomach rumbled. It was irrational but he felt he ought not be hungry after everything that happened. His body had other ideas though. 

Sam rummaged in the pockets of Dean's jacket and found some loose notes. There was enough for a meal and he could keep a lookout for Dean at the same time. His lack of shoes would be a problem if anyone looked closely, but otherwise he could pass as an intern just off shift. 

He hoped. 

Sam walked to the diner and ordered as healthy a meal as he could find on the limited menu. He sat by the window and kept his attention on the road outside, resolutely not looking at the ceiling. It had been hard enough walking through the door. The smells from the grill out back hadn't helped at all. 

Eating slowly and deliberately, Sam took his time over his meal. He didn't want to admit it, but he was getting worried about Dean. He wasn't sure how long he'd been dozing, but surely Dean should be back by now? 

It shouldn't take long to get a few clothes. What if he'd been found by those Collectors? Sam sternly told himself to stop worrying. The Collectors were after him, not Dean. They probably didn't even know who Dean was. Still, as time crawled by with no sign of the Impala, Sam's worry increased. 

Finally he decided to head back to the motel, in case Dean had come in from another direction. There was only the one entry into the motel parking lot, which he could see from his seat, and the Impala wasn't the quietest of vehicles, but Sam paid for his meal and headed back out. 

There was a black van cruising down the road, looking for a place to pull over maybe, and Sam looked only long enough to determine he could cross safely in front of it. Unexpectedly the engine revved and Sam looked over, startled. He met the eyes of the driver and saw recognition, though Sam had never seen the man before in his life. He was puzzled for only a moment, before he realized the van was now headed straight at him. Fast. 

Sam dodged down a lane next to the diner, his socks disintegrating on the bitumen. He ignored the pain as the skin of his feet scraped on the litter strewn around. The lane was wide enough for the van, so wouldn't slow his pursuers much. Sam had no plan and no idea what to do, so he ran blindly. 

The lane ended in a suburban street with nowhere to hide. Suddenly there was a familiar sound and he turned to it. Dean pulled up beside him in the Impala, looking grim. Sam hesitated before opening the door, though unsure why. The van burst out of the lane, swerving wildly through the turn. 

Sam slammed the door and Dean floored the accelerator. There was no chance they hadn't seen him. 

It didn't take the powerful Impala long to lose itself in the mid-morning traffic. Sam knew they'd lost the van when Dean stopped obsessively checking his mirrors. He relaxed. 

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean yelled. "You had an ace up your sleeve and you just threw it away. Why? Why the hell did you let them know I was helping you? Don't you trust me?" 

"Of course I trust you." Sam didn't know why he'd hesitated but he regretted it. Dean was right, he'd thrown away an advantage. In his defence, he wasn't used to being on the run. "You were _late_. Where the hell were you?" 

When Dean didn't answer immediately, Sam turned to stare at him, a niggle of suspicion flaring. He was surprised to find Dean looked _embarrassed_. "Dean?" 

"It's been a long time, Sammy. Since I lived here. I thought I knew where to go, but then I realized I was buying for a Sasquatch and really, who stocks clothes for freakily tall people? Anyway, I had to, um..." Sam filled in the blanks of Dean's ramble and had to choke back a laugh as he relaxed a little. 

"You had to do what, Dean?" Sam tried to feign innocence, but from the glare Dean sent him, he wasn't very successful. 

"...stop for directions," Dean mumbled. Sam laughed out loud. 

"Then there was a line at the bank," Dean continued after a put-upon sigh at his brother's antics. "We're going to need cash to go on the lam." It was said airily, but the truth of it caused the laughter to die in Sam's throat. It wasn't like Sam had access to his accounts. His cards, all his identification, was gone. He shivered. He was, for all intents and purposes, a non-person. 

God, did the nightmare ever end? 

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Three**

>   
>  Fans have started a mail campaign to protest the sudden cancellation of the CBS hit show Walker, Texas Hunter. The show, starring Chuck Norris as Cordell Walker, an FHB Hunter based in Dallas, Texas, rated strongly in its first season. Network officials are not commenting on rumors that the FHB was involved with the decision to axe the series. Fans were deeply disappointed to hear that the series had been dropped by the network and are rallying to support it.

 _E! News, March 1994_

> Dean glanced over at his little brother. After the adrenaline spike subsided, trauma and exhaustion had knocked the kid out. He was huddled against the Impala's door, still wrapped in Dean's jacket, fast asleep. Dean shook his head. Despite his freakily long limbs, the kid looked so incredibly _young_. The urge to protect Sammy punched through him. 

It was time to stop running around aimlessly and start doing this smart. Dean was hungry, the Impala was thirsty and Sam still needed to put some damn clothes on. Dean looked for an off ramp. 

Dean balanced the two drinks precariously in one hand and clutched the paper bag with their food as he made his way to the picnic table off to the side of the gas station. Sam had slipped into the bathroom with a bag of clothes and was now looking normal. Well as normal as the dork ever did, Dean thought fondly. The hair was longer than ever, but he'd always resisted getting it cut. It was the one thing Sam and Mary had argued about with any heat. Which reminded him... he watched as Sam picked at the salad one-handed and waited until he'd eaten most of it before bringing up an unpleasant topic. 

"So. We need to make arrangements," he started, staring down at his lunch wrappers. 

"What kind of arrangements?" Sam asked, sipping at his soda. Dean really didn't want to be talking about this now, but something had to be done. He sighed and looked up at his brother. 

"For the funeral. For Mom." Sure enough, Sam put down the drink and shoved his food away. "Someone has to make arrangements," Dean said reluctantly. 

"I s'pose. Shit." Sam brushed his bangs back with his good hand, looking lost. 

"I think a funeral home would take care of it?" Dean suggested a bit uncertainly. "Maybe we could call one?" 

"Wouldn't they want to meet us?" Sam frowned and Dean mulled that over, finally nodding in agreement. 

"Probably. Then there's the issue of paying them." Dean wiped his hand over his mouth. 

They contemplated the problem in silence, staring at the uninspiring view. Trash was overflowing from the trash can in the small, dusty area and the toilet block was dilapidated. 

"Okay, how about we ask Dad for help?" Dean finally suggested. 

"They've been divorced for years, Dean," Sam pointed out. His tone was neutral though, so Dean didn't take it as outright disagreement. He shrugged. 

"Sure, but he could ask them for advice on our behalf." 

Sam thought it over, looking unhappy. "This sucks Dean, but I can't see an alternative. It's not like Mom had any relatives." Dean nodded. 

"Okay, I'll give him a call," Dean hesitated. "Um, is there anyone you need to call? At Stanford? To, you know, let them know you'll be away for a few weeks?" 

Sam stared at him, dumbfounded. "Weeks, man? Seriously?" Dean rubbed the back of his neck. 

"I dunno, Sammy. We have no idea what happened to Mom, or why the FHB wants your ass. I doubt the answers will just drop into our lap. Better to be prepared, isn't it?" 

"Shit," was Sam's heartfelt response. "What the hell do I tell them?" 

"The truth? Well some of it. Mom died and you need to make arrangements. That should get you a week to start with." Dean stood and fished out his cell phone. 

Sam nodded in agreement, hunched over and looking unhappy. 

"Here, use my phone." Dean tossed it to him. "I'll use the payphone." 

Dean's conversation with his father went as well as could be expected. John had been shocked at the manner of his ex-wife's death, demanded to hear from Sam himself that his youngest was okay, and had agreed to try to make some funeral arrangements on their behalf. Sam was still making calls - how many people did he need to notify anyway? - so Dean pulled his laptop from the car and had a quick look at the files he'd copied from the FHB. 

He was irritated to find he'd pulled more than he'd needed - he'd grabbed everything with Winchester in its name, completely forgetting about the Winchester Mystery House - but found the one he wanted quickly enough. The investigation was still too early for there to be more than a prelim posted, but it only took Dean a minute to find the answer he'd been looking for. Sulfur. Found in quantity in the ruins of the room identified as Sam's and where the fire started. 

Dean's thoughts whirled. Demons were _rare_. What the hell would one have to do with Mary? Shit. Dean needed help. Fortunately he'd been heading in mostly the right direction. He calculated they were no more than six hours from Sioux Falls, if he pushed it a bit. 

He closed the laptop as Sam wandered back towards him, looking devastated. 

"What's wrong?" Dean stood, alarmed. Had someone else died? 

"I talked to my friend Zach. He said my apartment building was destroyed last night," Sam told him, disbelievingly. "Fire. No one died, but there were some serious injuries. It's being investigated but it looks like it started in my apartment." Sam flopped down on the bench, looking completely lost. "What the hell's going on Dean?" he asked, plaintively. 

Dean was stunned. He hadn't thought of Sam as being the _focus_ of all this. He'd assumed his brother was an unfortunate bystander. Shit. They really needed to get to Sioux Falls. 

* * *

"Damn it, Dean. I was supposed to be going to an interview on Monday for Law School. My whole future on a plate. Instead my mother is dead, my apartment destroyed and I'm running from guys with guns and I don't even know _why_." Sam bit down hard on his lip and blinked to keep tears from falling. 

"I'm sorry, Sam. And I'll do everything I can to make it right." Dean's earnest sincerity threw Sam back into childhood and made Sam want to believe that his big brother could solve all his problems. 

"Why?" he asked. They were a long way from childhood - and Dean had _left_. 

"What do you mean, why?" Dean looked confused. It was a simple question though. 

"Why help me?" Sam spelled it out for him. 

"You're my brother, Sam. Of course I'll do anything I can to help." Dean still looked confused but Sam kept pushing. 

"And that's enough for you. That I'm your brother." The flat disbelief wasn't what Sam had intended, and the hurt on Dean's face made him feel bad, but with his world in pieces Sam had to _know_. Had to be _sure_. 

"Yeah, Sam, it is." Dean was getting exasperated at how Sam couldn't seem to get such a simple thing. 

"You barely know me, Dean. You left us ten years ago." Dean ducked his head at the accusation and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. 

"What happened back then had nothing to do with you and I'm sorry if you thought it did." Sam refused to acknowledge the apology and Dean let it go. "You're still my little brother. Still _family_. That's all that matters." 

Sam nodded, still uncertain. It was enough for now though. He didn't object when Dean led him back to the car, his thoughts still on the conversations he'd had with people he now wasn't sure he'd ever see again. 

"Shit!" Sam looked up at Dean's angry exclamation. He followed Dean's stare and felt a chill raise goosebumps on his arms as a familiar black van sped past on the highway. He froze, but tall bushes partly obscured the Impala from the highway. He felt horribly exposed. 

"C'mon," Dean urged. They hurried to the car and Dean eased it onto a smaller two-lane road, looking for a new direction. 

* * *

"How the hell do they keep finding us?" Dean demanded. Sam had no answer. He was shaken by the appearance of his pursuers. He couldn't deny he was being hunted and he had no idea how he was being found. 

"What did Henriksen do? At the hospital? Did he give you anything?" Dean asked impatiently. 

"No. He, um, he asked questions. Gave me his card." It had been left on the table, he recalled. "Oh, I asked for water and he gave me a bottle. I drank it all." Sam couldn't recall anything suspicious about the interview. "He only touched me to shake my hand." 

Dean chewed over that for a while. "How about the hospital? Did they take samples or anything?" 

"Take samples? What the hell are you thinking? They patched me up, put a cast on my arm," Sam lifted his arm to show him, "and gave me some painkillers. They took some blood to test for drugs and alcohol, but that's standard I think in these cases." 

"Son of a bitch! A blood trace. Dammit." Sam stared at him, confused. 

"What?" 

"That movie. Ten years ago or so. Had Indiana Jones in it and Tommy Lee Jones..." Dean licked his lips as he thought. "The Fugitive," he announced. "The Collectors traced the dude through his blood." Sam stared at him in disbelief. 

"That was a movie, Dean, not a documentary. You said yourself this is real life." Sam gestured vaguely around him with his cast hand. 

"It'd make sense though, the way they homed right in on you. They're tracking you somehow." Dean sounded convinced but Sam shook his head. 

"So if you're right and they are... tracking my blood... they can find me anywhere?" Sam screwed up his face in distaste and a little alarm. 

Dean frowned and thought it over. "In the movie it was only if you stay in one place for a while. A few hours? We'll have to stay on the move." 

"Great." Sam sighed. "So where do we move _to_? California? I could ask one of my professors if any of this is legal. Get their help fighting this." 

"No, they'll look for you there." Sam rolled his eyes at the dramatics. He wasn't really living in a spy drama, despite what it felt like at times. 

"So where do we go?" he asked a bit snottily. He wasn't sure he wanted to drink the Kool-Aid Dean was selling just yet. 

"We find out what happened to Mom and why. I was looking at the news reports while you were on the phone and one of them mentioned sulfur was found at the scene." Dean was frowning. 

"Sulfur? What does that mean?" It didn't sound good. Dean looked back at him, thoughtful. Sam was finding it hard to reconcile this serious Dean with the devil-may-care youth of his childhood. 

"Demons, Sammy," Dean told him somberly. "It means Mom was killed by a demon." Sam couldn't believe it. A _demon_ killed his mother? 

"You sure? It couldn't have been something else? Henriksen didn't mention demons." Dean had sounded very certain, but Sam was dubious. It wasn't like Dean was any kind of expert, after all. 

"One hundred percent. Only demons leave sulfur. And Henriksen wouldn't mention demons to you. He'd want to find the son of a bitch first." Sam digested that. 

"Why? Why would a demon kill Mom?" Sam couldn't think of any reason why a demon might want to kill their mother. Dean only shrugged in reply. 

"Who knows why demons do things, dude?" But Sam noticed his brother still sounded worried. 

_Was it me?_ he wondered. _Did I get Mom killed?_

"He asked about the house wards. Henriksen. Said they weren't normal." The silence that had fallen between them hadn't been completely comfortable as they contemplated the situation. 

Dean frowned as he considered that. "But he didn't say how they weren't normal?" 

Sam shook his head. "Nope. He was pretty suspicious about it though. I told him Mom didn't want anything to do with the supernatural. She wouldn't even talk to hunters." 

Dean's mouth tightened, but he didn't comment. His right hand was absently tapping a rhythm on the braided steering wheel, his silver ring catching the weak sunlight filtering into the car. 

Sam shrugged and continued. "He seemed to think that was suspicious too." Sam was still upset about that. His mother was a good person and this guy found it strange she wanted to avoid the things in the dark? 

Dean snorted but still didn't comment. Sam could see he was thinking hard about something, but couldn't guess what. Sam watch the world roll past his window and let the silence quiet his indignation at how Henriksen's questions had implied his mother was at fault in her own death. 

"So where are we going?" he asked. 

* * *

"We're going to see Professor Singer in South Dakota," Dean told him. "He's an expert in this stuff." 

Sammy looked like hell, no pun intended. Dean felt no better. He'd driven for hours to get to Lawrence, then the scare with Collection getting involved and now wondering how his mother had gotten mixed up with a demon. They were never good news. And why had Sammy survived? He was grateful, don't get him wrong. 

Very grateful. But very worried too. 

"Why can't we research this ourselves, man?" Sammy was deeply reluctant to get anyone else involved in this mess. Dean appreciated that, but he understood his own limits. Well, most of the time. 

"And where are you proposing to look, Sammy? They don't let books like that out where civilians can see them. They're all in government libraries, where they can be held under lock and key." 

"Censorship doesn't work, Dean. People make sure information is out there. That's what the Internet is about." Sammy was passionate and condescending. Probably protested on campus about government oppression and all that stuff. 

Dean shook his head at his brother's youthful naivety. "Junk, Sammy. The Internet is full of junk. Crackpots and idiots posting theories and folk remedies and almost none of it is even _vaguely_ right." 

"How do you know that? Have you looked?" Yeah, the kid wanted to be a lawyer all right. The chin was out and he was turning belligerent. More belligerent. It was kinda nostalgic. Dean had dubbed it "the bitchface" when Sammy was a kid. It was kinda nice some things hadn't changed. 

"Yes Sammy, I looked. It was part of the course he teaches." Dean sighed. Arguing with Sam was damn tiring. 

"It's Sam," the kid insisted. "What course?" 

"The one I took in college, genius. General education credits?" Dean wasn't keen on this line of questioning, but resigned himself to it. 

"Oh. Ok." Dean was startled at Sam not following that up. As far as he knew, Sam had no idea what Dean had done with his life and it wasn't like Sam not to pursue something to death. Still, he was _not_ going to look a gift horse in the mouth. They needed answers and Dean needed Sammy to trust him a little longer so they could get them. He knew it wouldn't be pretty when Sammy learned the truth. 

The kid was too damn twitchy to take the news well. 

* * *

Sam was more comfortable now that he had proper clothes on and something that looked like a plan. Finding out his home had been destroyed had shaken him deeply. He'd been hoping, selfishly and irrationally, that his mother's death was somehow accidental, in the sense that she was an unfortunate, random victim. The fire in Palo Alto drove home that he was somehow the target of something. That her death might be his fault for going home. 

"You have cassette tapes?" Sam stared at the tape deck with disdain. He knew the car was old, but damn! Dean had just reached down under the seat and produced a box, which he passed to Sam, distracting him from his morbid thoughts. Sam took the tattered box and rummaged through the tape cases. "Black Sabbath? Motorhead? Metallica?" he said with disdain. "It's the greatest hits of mullet rock, Dean." 

"House rules, Sammy. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole." Dean plucked a tape out of the jumble without looking at the case and pushed it into the deck. 

"You know, Sammy is a chubby 12-year-old. It's Sam, okay?" Music started blaring out of the speakers. 

"Sorry, I can't hear you. The music's too loud," Dean yelled obnoxiously before turning the racket up a little more. Sam gave up and resigned himself to a headache. Still, despite his brother's childish antics, Sam couldn't regret not being alone right now. Not at all. 

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Four**

>   
>  Japanese officials have confirmed their intent to keep existing laws which prohibit wards that prevent ghosts from entering or remaining in homes. "We honour our ancestors", the Japanese Prime Minister told reporters at a press conference today. "The government will never repeal these laws." The Prime Minister was responding to rumours that have been sweeping through Japan in recent weeks, sparking riots in rural townships where ancestor worship is most prevalent.   
> __

BBC World, Wednesday August 22, 2001 

> Sam was dubious when they pulled into Singer's Salvage Yard late that evening. "A professor lives _here_. Really." Disbelief flattened his tone to disdain. 

"Professors don't make much," Dean shrugged. "But don't let the good ol' boy image fool you. The prof's like that nerdy guy in Stargate, the one that knows a zillion dead languages." 

"Right. And we need dead languages, why?" Sam wasn't buying his brother's story, but Dean hadn't given him any real reason to distrust him. Still, Sam was wary. His freedom, and maybe even his life, was on the line after all. 

"He teaches Demonology, Sammy. If anyone could tell us what a demon might have wanted with Mom, it'll be him." Dean got out of the Impala, forestalling any other objection Sam might have. Sam followed reluctantly. 

The place really was a dump, Sam thought, with the rusting hulks of hundreds of dead cars scattered haphazardly around a large property. A handwritten "Self Service" sign hung near a shed that looked like it served as a workshop. The small two story house in the center of the grounds had peeling paint. 

It really didn't scream "professor" to him. 

It didn't even murmur "respectable person". 

A large dog leaped up on the hood of a truck and barked at them. It sounded more like an alarm than a guardian. Sam hung back as Dean walked up onto the porch and knocked at the door. 

The man who answered the door looked like a mechanic. Jeans, flannel shirt and a trucker's cap, none of them particularly clean looking gave the grizzled man a grungy look. 

"Hi, Professor," Dean greeted the man cheerfully. Sam blinked. Professor? He'd been expecting tweeds. 

"What are you doing here?" The question was asked neutrally. Not welcoming, but not repelling either. Dean didn't seem deterred. 

"We need your advice. But there's a Collection team after us, tracking us somehow - probably a blood spell, so we'll go if you prefer." Dean didn't downplay their situation, Sam was glad to see, but he wasn't quite right. 

"After me," Sam objected. 

"They'll know I'm with you by now, Sammy. I'll be just as much a target as you are." Dean gave a shrug as if it didn't matter to him. 

"They can't do that!" he objected, horrified, but was ignored. 

"Who's this?" The professor gave him a long look. 

"My brother, Sam. Sammy, Professor Bobby Singer." Sam nodded, struck by the shrewd intelligence of the eyes assessing him. Maybe first impressions weren't completely accurate. 

"Call me Bobby. You'd better come in then." The man stepped back and gestured them inside with his head. 

"We don't want to get you into trouble," Sam said, not moving. 

The professor snorted. "Get in here." Dean followed him inside readily, but Sam dragged his feet. 

The inside of the house was just as chaotic as the outside, but where Sam expected car paraphernalia, there were books everywhere. Old books, large books, it looked like a library's reference section had been scattered around haphazardly. Sam glanced at the nearest pile on the floor and blinked when he recognized a few words of the title. It was in Latin. Maybe Dean hadn't been lying about the dead languages thing after all. 

Dean waited just inside the door while their host rummaged in the kitchen. Professor Singer, Bobby, came out with two glasses which he handed to them. It looked like water. "Drink this," he ordered. 

Sam sniffed the clear liquid cautiously and shot a confused look at his brother, but Dean chugged down his glass without complaint. Hesitantly Sam sipped, then drank the liquid down. It tasted like water to him. 

"Holy water," Dean told him. "To make sure you don't have a passenger." Sam stared at the glass, startled, then followed the other two men into a living room turned library. 

"Um." He stopped, trying to find a polite way to ask. 

"What is it?" Bobby sat behind a desk covered in piles of books. Sam fidgeted a little. 

"Why do you live in a junk yard?" Bobby's eyebrows rose. "It's just... you teach at college." Sam shifted his weight under the stare he was getting. 

"S'ok. I guess you can't be too careful." Bobby leaned back in his chair. "I bought this place when my wife died, before I took up lecturing. I guess you could call it my hobby now. I don't have tenure, so I come back here in the summers or when I'm on sabbatical, like now. I hate petty college politics with a passion. Useless idjits," he shook his head and Sam blinked at the aside. "This is a good place to catch up on my reading, away from pesky students." Bobby sent a mock glare at Dean who grinned back unrepentant. There was clearly a story there, but it wasn't the time to ask. Sam nodded. 

"Get on with it then, boy," Bobby ordered Dean, not unkindly. 

Dean relayed the events of two nights earlier (was it really only a couple of days? It felt like eternity) and the news he'd found about sulfur at the scene. 

"Sulfur means demon, as you well know," Bobby told them. Dean nodded. Sam had been impressed Dean retained so much from a college class years earlier. 

"But it's the telekinesis and fire mastery that concerns me. No garden variety demon can do that, especially the fire stuff." 

"There are... levels... of demons?" Sam asked. 

"Yep. There's a hierarchy in Hell and this sounds like it might be something from pretty high up." That didn't sound like good news at all. 

"Does that help us find it?" Dean cut to the chase. 

"It'll narrow things down a bit, but to be honest we don't know a great deal about the higher levels. Normally it's low level demons that escape through cracks. They're into chaos and destruction and it normally doesn't take too long to find 'em 'cause they're not about being subtle. This though, this is different." 

"It couldn't have been random?" Sam asked, but Bobby was already shaking his head, dashing Sam's hopes. 

"There were no other deaths or fires in Lawrence that night were there?" Sam had no idea, but Dean shook his head. 

"Not that night, not in the couple of weeks before, not since. At least nothing that remotely pinged as supernatural," Dean told them. Sam had no idea he'd checked. 

Or when. 

"That kinda suggests purpose," Bobby pointed out. 

"But if it wanted subtle, then why let Sam live?" Dean gave an apologetic grimace to Sam, but he understood. He too wanted to know why he'd been left alive. 

"Mom was killed in Sam's room. It could've been anywhere, but it was there. Either it wanted a witness for some reason, or she surprised it and it killed her for it. If she surprised it, then it was after Sam for something." Both Bobby and Dean looked at Sam thoughtfully. 

It upset him that they might think he was connected to a demon. It upset him to think that he might be connected to a demon. Sam ducked his head to hide behind his hair, a childhood habit he reverted to when stressed. 

"A witness," Bobby mused. "But what would it need a witness for?" Sam felt relieved that Bobby preferred that option. He preferred it too. It was too frightening to think that a demon might be interested in him personally for some reason. 

"There is another thing, though. There's been an upswing in possessions this year. Normally I hear of three or four a year, tops. This year I've heard of twenty-seven so far." Bobby told them grimly. 

"Yeah?" Dean looked worried. 

"You get what I'm saying?" he said to Dean. 

Dean nodded, though Sam was clueless. "Yeah. But why?" 

"I don't know, but it's something big. A storm's comin'. And it looks like you boys might well be smack in the middle of it." It didn't occur to Sam to doubt Bobby's word on this. He was definite and deathly serious and that left a strong impression on Sam. He shivered. 

* * *

"So how'd you get to be friends with Dean? He mentioned your class." His brother had headed upstairs for a shower and Sam was curious. Bobby was pulling old books from his shelves, occasionally blowing dust from their covers. 

"Yeah, he was one of my students. A real pain in the ass," the last was said fondly. "Always asking questions." Bobby settled back into his chair, spreading several tomes - there was no other word for them - across his desk. Sam could see several were in Latin. 

"See, most students for my kinda course are from the Theology side, maybe liberal arts. Having someone from science or engineering is unusual. They normally hate the idea of magic, stuff that can't be put into tidy equations." Bobby set one book aside and pulled another on in front of him. 

"Normally my students are interested in the whys, but Dean wanted to know the practical stuff. Kept me on my toes, arguing the merits of the ideas he'd come up with." Bobby shrugged as he paged through the book. 

"I invited him to do some tutoring the next couple of semesters and he was short of cash so he agreed." That explained why Dean remembered so much from a single course years before. 

"I've got a lot of catching up to do," Sam admitted, looking down at the sheaf of Demonology 101 notes Bobby had given him. 

Dean came back downstairs, still rubbing a towel over his damp hair. The clean clothes just made him look more tired. A twinge of guilt went through Sam at having dragged his brother into this mess. He shook his head. Dean seemed to have thrown himself into it without Sam's input, but it still felt like his fault. 

"This is something you'll need to know," Bobby said, drawing Sam's attention back to the diagram in front of him. 

* * *

Dean closed his eyes and let his head rest on the back of the chair while Bobby showed Sam some of his texts, answering his questions. Bobby didn't suffer fools, Dean reflected, but if you showed a genuine desire to learn he was unexpectedly patient. Sam couldn't have a better teacher for this. 

Bobby suggested Sam go upstairs and take a shower himself. Although he'd had one that morning he agreed. Bobby had some plastic he could wrap around his cast, which he took gratefully. 

Dean listened to Sam tramp up the stairs. A few minutes later the pipes clanked as the shower was turned on. He opened his eyes. 

"So what's up with this Collection team?" Bobby asked. 

"Gordon Walker's leading it," Dean told him grimly. "And the hospital took blood. They seem to be using it to track us." Bobby frowned at that, but waved it off. Dean hoped that meant he could do something to get rid of the spell. 

"Walker? I thought he'd been canned after that vampire fiasco." Bobby's knowledge of what was happening in the hunting community never failed to impress Dean. 

"Apparently not. And given that I was the one who faced him down over that, you can bet he has a hard on to nail me over this." Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Lack of a Writ isn't going to slow him down any." 

"What do they have on Sam?" Bobby's tone was neutral, but Dean just shrugged. He knew questions had to be asked. 

"I don't know. I couldn't find a Writ in the files." That bothered him. If Gordon was working out of Lawrence, then Lawrence should have had the paperwork for Sam's detention before the team went to the hospital. Otherwise the computer should have had a reference number to the issuing office. 

"Sounds like something hinky's going on." Dean raised an eyebrow and felt a shiver trickle down his spine at Bobby's expression. He was suddenly sure a lot more was going on than he'd realized. Just what was Sam involved in? 

Bobby gave a shrug. "I hear things. Things that aren't adding up. And the FHB seems to be in middle. Who's lead investigator?" Dean hesitated, wanting very much to press the point, but Bobby's expression was closed. He knew from experience that arguing would him nowhere. It bugged the crap out him. 

"Victor Henriksen. By the book kinda guy, but he's got a good rep," Dean finally bit out. 

"You ever worked with him?" Bobby asked casually and Dean glared at him. Bobby was unruffled and Dean finally gave in. 

"Once. A supposed haunting turned out to be a Vanir. The town was sacrificing couples to it so they'd stay prosperous. He didn't seem to like me much, but I'm not really a book kinda guy." Dean smirked. Bobby looked less than impressed. 

"Huh. Don't think I haven't noticed what you _haven't_ told your brother, by the way." Bobby sat back and stared steadily at Dean, who dropped the smirk and started to fidget at the censure. 

"It didn't come up at first. Then... well, he's got no reason to love hunters at the moment." Dean didn't want to lose his brother, but his silence might have guaranteed that. He felt twisted up by that, but it was too late now. Hindsight and all that crap. 

"You're makin' a mistake, boy. He deserves to know. Have you thought about what'll happen when he does?" Yeah, that had definitely occurred to him, thank you very much. He glared at Bobby. 

"Yeah, I know. But I'm more concerned about finding this demon. Bobby, you taught us how to trap and exorcise demons. You never mentioned tracking them." Dean ran a hand over his damp hair and looked hopefully at his old mentor. Bobby sat back, surprised. 

"Well it's not normally an issue. Possessions ain't exactly subtle." Bobby pointed out. 

"But there's no reason why they couldn't be, is there? If it has a goal in mind." The whole thing was too murky for him to wrap his mind around. He had no idea what was or wasn't likely. Worse, he quite simply didn't know where to go next. 

"Sure, I s'pose. No reason why not," Bobby agreed slowly. "But tracking one? I'd need to look into that." He looked intrigued by the idea and Dean felt relieved. If anyone could find this thing, it was Bobby Singer. 

"Thanks." Dean hesitated and Bobby focused back on him. "Bobby, demon deals are ten years, aren't they?" 

"Yep. Why?" His eyebrows rose. 

"To the day?" Dean really didn't want to raise this, but it was eating at him. 

"What's in your head now, boy?" Bobby sighed. 

"I, um, I left home ten years ago." Dean couldn't look at his friend so he studied his boots. 

"Yeah they're to the day," Bobby told him. 

Dean relaxed. _Thank God_ "Ok. I left in January." 

"Worried your momma might have made a deal after you left?" Dean's eyes flew up to meet Bobby's. The older man shrugged apologetically. 

"Put like that it seems stupid." There was no attempt to hide his bitterness. 

Bobby didn't reply, knowing he'd been insensitive. He'd known Dean a long time now. Dean's relationship with his mother had always been a sore topic. 

Dean was rubbing his hand over his lips. It was an old tell. 

"What fool idea are you thinking now?" 

"I'm wondering if I can get the location spell to focus on me instead. I'm his brother. It might work." The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. It would solve several problems. 

"And then?" Bobby was eyeing him like he thought Dean was an idiot. Dean bristled. If he could pull it off Sam would be safe. He could totally run rings around an idiot like Gordon, keep him off Sam's trail. Excitement built. 

"Well I could lead the hounds away. Sam could track this thing down with your help. He's smart enough." It would work. He _knew_ it would work. 

Bobby blew his rising hope out of the water. "It won't work. I can maybe rustle up a charm that'll dilute the focus a bit. Give you the chance to rest up a bit every now and then, but that's the best anyone can do. Blood magic is _strong_ Dean. Yes you're his brother, but you'd have to be his identical twin to have even the slightest chance to pull it off." His gaze was sympathetic, but Dean didn't want pity. 

"So what do we do?" If Bobby said it couldn't be done, it couldn't and with the loss of the hope that had sent a spike of adrenaline through him Dean was more tired than ever. 

"I've got a few ideas. Catch a nap while I look a few things up. I was serious when I said you're safe here. So long as you leave in the morning they won't find you here." 

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean said with quiet gratitude. 

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Five**

>   
>  Suburban Book Club Revealed to be Witches Coven

Tammi Fenton, Amanda Burns, and Renee Van Allen have been charged with Witchcraft in Akron, Ohio today. The hunt for a fourth member of the alleged coven, Elizabeth Statton, continues. 

> Amanda Burns is accused of killing Janet Dutton and her husband Paul to cover up their illegal activities. Neighbors first became suspicious six months ago when the group, which included Janet Dutton, suddenly had a run of extraordinary good luck. A raid by police and FHB agents uncovered a number of items allegedly used for magical practices, including hex bags. 

> _Akron Beacon Journal, Thursday February 5, 2004_

> _Nov 4, 2005_

Sam woke to the dim light of pre-dawn and a cramp in his left calf. Surprised there had been no nightmare, he tried to stretch his leg out and came fully awake with a yelp of pain. He was on his side, curled onto a couch that was much too short for his long limbs. Someone had thrown an afghan over him, which had twisted around his lower body. 

He carefully unwound himself, straightening his legs as he sat up. Sam wondered what time it was. There were birds chattering outside but the sun wasn't up yet. He yawned and ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing as they snagged on knots. Flexing his leg until the cramp subsided, he hauled himself up and headed for the bathroom. 

Once he'd relieved himself and washed his face he headed for the kitchen. He could hear soft voices which meant the others were up. The smell of coffee was a siren call. Despite the best sleep he'd had in days - maybe weeks - he still felt mentally slow and bleary. 

He came to an abrupt halt when he actually looked at the scene in front of him. His brother was sitting at the kitchen table with Bobby, but it was the ornately etched knife and the bowl with flames dying down in it that caught his attention. There was a spicy herbal scent wafting on a thin stream of smoke that oddly complemented the aroma coming from the coffee pot. 

"Um, what the hell?" he asked hesitantly. Dean turned to him with an expression of guilty surprise. 

"Hey, Sammy. Did you get some sleep?" Dean was in a t-shirt and jeans, a thick silver colored chain tucked inside the shirt. He was calmly dressing a small wound on his forearm, a spot of blood still visible. Sam stared. 

"It's Sam," he commented distractedly, taking it all in. "What's going on here?" he demanded. 

Bobby stood up and took the bowl to the sink and started to wash it out. Dean glanced at him then held out a pendant to Sam. 

"This is for you. It'll help protect you." His gaze was open and concerned and, embarrassingly, affectionate. Sam ducked his head for a moment, then reached out to take it. 

His fingers brushed Deans as he picked the pendant up and there was a short, sharp tingle that made him frown. He ignored it though, as he studied the ugliest looking amulet he'd ever seen. It was a brassy color and shaped like some weird hybrid of the head of a bull and the face of a man. The amulet was threaded onto a long leather strap. 

"What is it?" he asked as he turned it over in his hands. 

"Put it on and keep it on," Bobby instructed. "It'll fuzz up whatever they're using to track you. Not a lot, so don't think you can hang around places for hours on end, but enough you'll be able to grab meals and the odd few hours of sleep." 

"Thanks Bobby." Dean clapped the older man on the shoulder and headed for the coffee pot. Sam turned the amulet over once more then slipped the leather over his head. There was a slight warmth as it rested against his chest, which he ignored. He'd been handling it, after all, so it made sense it was warm. 

"Yeah, thanks," he belatedly added. "Um, but... it's magic?" He'd heard of witchcraft - who hadn't? - but it was strictly forbidden. He wracked his mind trying to remember what he'd learned about the legalities of owning magical items. Or creating them. 

Bobby seemed to understand his concerns. "It's very old, Sam. Completely legal to own," he assured. Sam couldn't help a skeptical glance at the knife still on the table. Bobby followed his gaze and snorted. "To 'tune' the protections, it was 'blessed with the blood of a loved one'," he quoted. "Boosts it, but that's all." Sam glanced at his brother, whose back was resolutely turned as he fiddled at the sink unnecessarily. His ears were bright red though and Sam couldn't help a grin at his discomfort. 

"Thanks," he said again, more sincerely. Bobby snorted. 

"Now, how 'bout breakfast? You'll need to be on the road soon." 

Sam nodded. 

* * *

"The way I see it, you've got two choices. One is to go back to Lawrence to see a psychic named Missouri Mosely. She could take a look at your memories and see whether you saw more than you remember." Bobby deftly dumped a pile of bacon on a plate in the middle of the kitchen table and threw more into the skillet to fry. 

"The other is Pamela Barnes. Also psychic. Sorta. She might be able to tell what a demon would want with you." 

Sam was poking at his scrambled eggs, knowing he needed to keep his strength up but the hollow feeling growing in his gut left no room for hunger. He grimaced at the thought of a psychic poking around in his head and Bobby noticed. 

"There are psychics out there that can rip the thoughts right out of your head. Pamela ain't one of them. All she can do is read souls and if ya want to know what _that_ means, ask _her_ about it. She'll know if a deal's been made for instance, says it leaves a mark." 

"A deal? With a demon?" Sam was incredulous. "You think I made some kind of deal?" 

Bobby shrugged, undisturbed by Sam's angry question. "It's not likely, but occasionally someone makes one without realizing it." 

"How?" It sounded unlikely to Sam. How could you not know you were selling your soul? 

"Express a wish, demon says it can happen, you say you'd like that. Ten years later, boom." Bobby turned the bacon and the sizzling sound turned Sam's stomach. His anger drained away into confusion. 

"And that really happens?" It sounded like a bad movie plot. 

"It's rare," Bobby admitted. "But there was a case years ago where a girl was being abused by her parents. She wished them dead and wanted enough money to be able to avoid that kind of situation again. She didn't know any summoning rituals, but her wishes came true anyway. Ten years later, hell hounds came to collect." 

Sam shivered. People said "I wish" all the time. That something might be listening, looking for opportunities, was frightening. 

"Lawrence isn't a good place for us to be right now and it's a long shot anyway. Sam might have seen something he can't remember, or he might not. We should try Pam first." Dean spoke up. He'd been shoveling food into his mouth like he was starving. Sam was embarrassed by his brother's lack of manners, but Bobby seemed used to it. 

Sam was reluctant to leave the refuge they'd found. "There's better resources here than anywhere we'd find on the road." 

"Have you forgotten the goon squad on our trail? They track us here and Bobby goes down with us." Dean frowned at him and mopped up his fried eggs with a piece of toast. Sam had to fight the urge to squirm at his brother's disapproval. Dammit, he wasn't twelve anymore! 

"I know that, but can a psychic really help with a demon problem?" Sam really, really didn't want someone poking in his head, but didn't want to talk about why. He was looking for a logical reason to stay, but had to admit to himself there wasn't one. Not when there was a good chance they'd already been tracked here. 

"Maybe, maybe not. But answers aren't going to drop in your lap, boy. You'll have to go hunting for them yourself." Bobby was studying him now with a shrewd gaze and Sam dropped his eyes to his plate. 

"Okay. Sounds like a plan," he reluctantly agreed. 

As they were leaving less than an hour later Bobby gave Dean a small stack of folders. "Nothing in here is related to this, but I keep thinking there's a pattern in these cases that I can't quite see. I'd like a fresh set of eyes on it. As a favor." 

"No problem. I'll look it over tonight." Dean put the folders into his duffel bag. Sam wondered why Bobby would want Dean to look at cases for him. And, for that matter, what 'cases' would a professor of demonology be looking at? Case studies for school perhaps? 

"No rush. Some of them are years old. Whenever you've got a minute'll be fine." Bobby turned to Sam and offered his hand to shake. When Sam accepted it, he got a hearty slap on his other arm. "Good luck Sam. I hope you find some answers." 

"Thanks sir. And thanks for the hospitality." Bobby waved it off. 

"No problem." He turned to Dean. "You look out for your brother now." Dean nodded. Sam was getting a strange vibe, like there was another discussion going on behind the words, but shook it off. 

"Always," Dean promised. And damn if that didn't sound like a vow. 

* * *

Bobby waited an hour after the sound of the Impala had faded into the sunrise to make a phone call. 

"Henriksen." 

"It's Singer. I heard you're on the Winchester case. I was wondering how it was going." Bobby sat back and sipped his coffee. 

"Your sources never cease to amaze me Bobby. How'd you hear about that?" Bobby smiled at Victor's exclamation. 

"I got ears," he retorted. 

Victor snorted. "I sometimes wonder if you're a closet witch or psychic." 

Bobby didn't deign to respond to the good-natured jibe. It was a running joke between them. Victor's voice turned serious. "The Winchester case has been rerouted. With unseemly haste, I might add. Turned over to Collection. I asked some pointed questions as to why, given the evidence, and was told in no uncertain terms to drop it." 

"From how high is the shit falling?" Bobby sat forward. This might be the break they'd been waiting for. 

"It's not definite yet," Victor warned quietly, "but from what I've been able to determine, it seems to be coming from somewhere in the Deputy Director's office." 

"Of the Field section?" Bobby thought it unlikely and frowned. 

"Of the FHB." Victor's voice was even quieter, but there was a strong current of satisfaction in it. 

"Shit," Bobby breathed, sitting back again. His worst fears were being realized. 

"Oh yeah," Victor averred earnestly. "I'm being a good little agent and leaving things alone, as ordered." 

"Huh. And what's the word on the Winchesters?" 

"Dean's been listed as AWOL and presumed to be abetting his brother. Any sightings are to be reported in. No guesses as to who they'll be passed to. And no, I'm not asking if you've seen them." 

"I can honestly say they're not here," Bobby told him sanctimoniously. 

"I'm sure they aren't," Victor replied dryly. "I don't like it, Bobby. None of this is sitting right. I checked Dean's case log and he's only just finished a case so AWOL doesn't make sense. Sam Winchester tested as human. I'd swear to that in any court. That doesn't rule out demonic possession when his mother died of course, but that doesn't justify Collection. Once it left him he became another victim." 

Bobby nodded, his fears confirmed. He decided to share his suspicions. "You're right. Something stinks. And it's not just this case. I can name a dozen over the past few years. I gave the details to Dean to see if he could see a pattern. Kid's got a gift for that kinda thing." 

"Just remember that I haven't asked when you did that," Victor told him. "Kid's a menace," he added after a moment. 

"Still sore about that Vanir in Burkittsville?" Bobby slyly needled. Victor snorted. 

"The kid could've gotten himself and several civilians killed with the stunt he pulled," Victor pointed out, still riled. 

"And if he hadn't jumped in, two civvies would have been sacrificed. He's not the sort to stand by and let that happen. Not for any reason." Bobby pointed out to him mildly. 

"True enough," Victor conceded, reluctantly. "So you'll keep in touch?" 

"Yeah. I think they've slipped up this time. Given us a solid place to look," Bobby mused. 

"Whoever _they_ are," Victor sourly returned. 

"Not everyone can put a Collection team in the field," Bobby reminded him. "Are you willing to get to the bottom of all this?" 

Victor sighed. "You know I am. Bill Harvelle was my trainer and he was a _good_ man. He - and Ellen - deserve the truth to be found. This is just a part of it all and I'm tired of it. Give me facts, Bobby, and I'll go to the wall with them." 

"Deal." Bobby hung up and contemplated his next move. The Winchester situation was a god-send in many ways. All eyes would be on them, allowing Bobby and a few other like-minded souls to work in the shadows. There was corruption to be rooted out and the time had, hopefully, finally come. 

He'd admit to a few qualms about not fully briefing Dean on the situation he'd unknowingly landed himself in, but it was better he hadn't. The boy had an odd streak of righteous fire that showed itself at the damndest times, not to mention that protecting his younger brother would have him in outright guardian mode. Dean could put a mama bear to shame when he someone he cared about was in danger. Bobby shook his head. 

The last thing the situation needed was for Dean to charge into a full on confrontation before Bobby had all his ducks in a row. Bobby was confident there was enough in the files to make Dean wary. He'd keep a close eye on his younger brother and keep them both out of trouble. 

In the meantime, Bobby was expecting visitors. He needed to be prepared. 

* * *

Bobby watched the black van pull up out front in a cloud of dust and headed for his phone. By the time his unlocked door was kicked in, he'd reached the person he wanted to talk to. 

"So you wanna tell me why Gordon Walker just broke my door down?" he said into the phone as three black-clad men trained guns on him. Bobby glared at their leader, sparing a thought to wonder where the fourth was. Collection teams always had four members. 

"Put the phone down," ordered Walker. Bobby listened to the phone for a few moments, then held it out to Walker, staring straight into his eyes. 

"It's for you," he coldly said. Walker hesitated, then suspiciously edged forward and snatched the handset from Bobby's hand. 

Bobby took a step back and crossed his arms, still engaged in a staring contest with Walker. 

"Who the hell is this?" Walker demanded. The suspicion turned to shock, but Bobby kept his smirk from showing. Instead his glare intensified. 

"Yes ma'am," Walker barked and broke the staring contest. "No ma'am," he added after a pause. "Yes ma'am." 

Walker looked around and carefully set the handset back into his cradle. His expression was forcibly neutral. The twitching muscles suggested he'd prefer to be scowling. His twitching hands suggested he'd rather be shooting. 

Walker waved his men's weapons down and took a deep breath. 

"My apologies, Professor," he stiffly said. 

"Apologies aren't gonna fix my door, boy. What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?" Bobby kept glaring at Walker who became visibly uncomfortable. 

"We had incorrect information. Let's go, men," Gordon turned and herded his men out the door. 

"And my door?" Bobby demanded. Walker gritted his teeth. 

"Send the bill to the FHB. It'll be paid." Walker made a brisk exit and Bobby followed them as far as the porch to make damn sure they got off his property. 

He knew Walker by reputation and the man have lived up to every bit of it. Bobby shook his head. 

"Good luck, boys," he muttered, sending up a quick prayer for the Winchesters. 

* * *

"What can I do for you?" Pamela Barnes hadn't been surprised at the knock on her door, but not because she was psychic. Bobby Singer had called earlier to give her a heads up. This wasn't the visitor she was expecting though, as she inspected the black jump-suited figure on her doorstep. 

"Evening, ma'am. I'm FHB Operative Kubrick and I was wondering if you'd seen these men?" 

Pamela looked over his identification before moving onto the two photos he'd offered. One was a student ID from Stanford for Sam Winchester. He looked like a cutie, she thought. Kinda puppyish, despite the serious look on his face. It was the hair, she decided. Meeting him would be fun. The other photo was also from some sort of ID card, but the details had been removed. Curious. The guy was a serious hottie though. A bit older than Sam, so it was probably his brother, Dean. He had gorgeous eyes and a pouty mouth she'd love to spend some time getting to know. There was a slight smirk on his face and she instantly labeled him a hell-raiser. 

"No, I can't say I have," she purred appreciatively. 

"Are you sure, ma'am?" he persisted. 

Pam raised her eyebrows at the moron in front of her. "Gorgeous guys like this are _not_ forgotten in a hurry, Mr. Kubrick," she pointed out. He looked disconcerted at that. Good. 

"Ma'am, there's a possibility they might contact you." He wasn't going to be deterred from his mission, it seemed. "It's very important you call me if they do." He gave her his business card. 

"Why might they contact me? And what have they done?" She was curious now. 

"Ma'am, I can't give you details, but I'm concerned you might be in danger." He leaned in, getting closer than Pam was comfortable with. "One of them has killed a woman." She couldn't help rearing back in surprise. Bobby hadn't mentioned _that._

"So why would they visit _me_?" It was a reasonable question given her specialty. 

"I really can't say, ma'am." She opened her Sight a little to look at his aura. There were sparkles of fanaticism there underlying his open earnestness and she only just managed to suppress a shudder. Guys like this were dangerous. 

"Huh. Okay, then. I'll keep an eye out." What she really wanted was brain bleach, but sadly that didn't exist. Ugh. Failing that, she wanted this guy elsewhere. 

Kubrick looked relieved. "Thank you, ma'am," he said and headed back to his car. 

"By the way," she called after him. He turned back politely. "You might want to think about another line of work soon." No harm in warning him. He'd been polite, after all. 

"Ma'am?" On some men that look of confusion would be adorable. Kubrick wasn't one of them. 

"Your aura is looking a bit dark in places. Not good for someone in your business." 

He looked unnerved. "Uh, thanks for the advice, ma'am. I'm fine though, really." 

She shrugged. It was no skin off her nose if he left himself open to nasty influences. 

She watched him get into his car and sniggered at the "Don't make me come down there - God" bumper sticker it sported. 

_Bobby, what are you mixed up in now?_ she wondered. 

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Six**

>   
>  No person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States, at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the Office of President; neither shall any Person be eligible to that Office who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty-five Years, and been fourteen Years a Resident within the United States. No person who has demonstrated Psychic Ability at any time of their life is eligible to that Office.   
> __
> 
> The U.S. Constitution Article 2, Section 1 

Dean had decided to take a slightly roundabout route to Pamela Barnes' house rather than blast up the interstate. He was sticking to back roads, a decision Sam agreed with. Better safe than in a Collection team's cross-hairs. 

"So... where do you live? Are you still living with Dad?" Sam winced when he realized how lame that sounded. He hurried on. "Um, wife? Kids?" It didn't help. Dean was giving him a disbelieving stare. 

"Dude, I'm 26. Of course I'm not living at home. No, no wife, let alone kids. No real hurry for them either. How about you?" 

"No. Too busy studying." Sam looked away. It had seemed the right thing at the time: he'd seen too many friends get sucked into relationship dramas that bombed their grades and futures. Now he wasn't so certain. 

"Riiiight. Too busy for girls? You're wasting the whole college experience, Sammy." Dean scoffed and shook his head. 

"Well, there is one girl," Sam confided. "We've never been on a date or anything, but she's really nice. Brady, a friend of mine, he's been pushing me to ask her out." 

Dean glanced over at him shrewdly. "But?" 

Sam squirmed a little then grinned sheepishly. "She is so far out of my league man," he admitted. "Tall, blonde, smart." 

"Gotta aim high, Sammy," Dean told him then grinned impishly. "Besides, who knows? She might be into charity cases." Dean chuckled and Sam aimed a half-hearted glare at him. 

"So you went to college too," Sam said. Dean glanced at Sam and nodded. "What's your degree in?" 

"Mechanical engineering." Sam blinked. 

"Isn't that engines and stuff?" he asked, unsure. He didn't know any engineers. Mom always said you'd do something like that." Sam offered. He knew Dean and Mary hadn't got on, so this was dangerous ground, but he wanted to get to know his brother better. Maybe even heal the rift a little that had existed, now that Mom couldn't do it. 

"No, Sam. She always said I'd be a _mechanic_ ," Dean all but spat. Sam reared back in surprise at the loathing in his brother's voice, defensively angry at his brother's attitude. Weren't they the same kind of thing? 

"You don't get to be pissy about her Dean. _You_ left _us_." It burst out of him unintended but Sam wasn't going to take it back. 

"Yeah. Because Mom..." Dean bit off his sentence. He looked like he regretted what he said, but Sam didn't feel like letting him off the hook. 

"Really? You're going to do this? Just because Mom didn't want you out drinking and sleeping around every night..." 

"What the hell?" Dean interrupted. He gave Sam a long stare, making Sam nervous about their safety. "She told you that was what I was doing?" He looked hurt. 

"Don't bullshit me, Dean. You used to go out all the time until..." 

Dean interrupted again. "And you thought, you _believe_ , that I was out partying?" 

Sam hesitated a moment. "Of course. You were a teenager, Dean. That's what they do. And there's nothing wrong with that - in moderation - but..." 

Dean made a rude noise. "God. It's like I don't even know you." That disconcerted Sam. 

"You don't. We haven't seen one another for ten years. You know nothing about me," Sam pointed out. Dean shook his head. 

"And you don't know me, Sam. Not now and not then, it seems." Dean turned up the music to Sam's annoyance. He squashed the impulse to turn it down and have it out with his brother. This wasn't the time for a fight, no matter how childishly his brother was acting. 

And what was that crack about not knowing Dean back then? Sam was confused. Dean was implying his fights with Mom weren't about what she said they were. Sam didn't want to think that she'd hadn't been telling the truth about Dean leaving them. He refused to. Sam turned his back on his brother and made himself comfortable against the window frame and stared out at the passing scenery. 

* * *

The strained silence lasted until they neared the town Pamela Barnes lived in. Dean had tersely asked for directions and Sam rummaged through the road atlas to give them, wrinkling his nose, but not commenting, at its worn and battered state. At least the music had to be turned down so Dean could hear him. 

He peered at the street signs, comparing them to the scribbled note the professor had given them, and told Dean to turn right at the next intersection. 

"Her house should be halfway down the block on the left," he told Dean. Dean nodded and halted at the stop sign. Looking down the street past Sam he frowned. He glanced in the rear view mirror then took a longer look at the cars parked on the street. 

"What?" Sam asked, trying to see what was bothering his brother. 

There were a handful of cars, mostly sedans and a single station wagon, parked outside various houses. There were no people walking around, but it was the middle of a Friday and this was a suburban area. Sam didn't think there was anything odd about it. 

"I think she's being watched," Dean told him and drove straight ahead instead of turning. 

"Man, are you nuts? What the hell are you talking about?" Dean ignored him and took the next street. 

"Which one of these backs onto her place?" he asked. Sam stared, incredulous. 

"How should I know? We didn't see the numbers. Dean, what's going on?" 

"I told you. She's being watched. Makes sense if they worked out we went to see Bobby. Pam's known to be a friend of his," Dean explained. Sam was momentarily diverted by concern over the possible repercussions to the gruff professor of their visit, but shook it off. Dean's paranoia was unnerving. 

"Dude, you're seeing conspiracies everywhere." Sam shook his head as they parked. 

"Right. So, you'd be fine just walking up the street back there and knocking on her front door?" Dean gave him a flat, challenging stare. 

Sam hesitated. Normally, sure. But things weren't normal. "So you want to wander through people's backyards, looking for this woman's back door?" 

Dean thought about it and shrugged. "Yeah. Why not?" 

"Because people will call the cops if they see strange guys wandering around their place?" It was a stupid idea. Surely Dean could see that? 

Dean shook his head. "Everyone's at work. We count off the houses and it'll be a straight shot to the door." Sam thought it was madness, but Dean was already getting out of the car, doing a quick recount of the houses from the corner. 

"Dammit Dean," Sam muttered, then followed him. 

* * *

Dean knocked on the back door of a tidy two story suburban bungalow that looked exactly like its neighbors. He suppressed both a shiver and a Stepford comment. Sam had turned into an amazingly pissy little bitch and he just didn't want to hear it right now. 

After a few moments, which had Dean wondering if he'd misjudged which house they needed, the door was answered by a smokin' hot brunette. Dean tilted his head admiringly and the woman smirked at him. 

"Would you be Pamela Barnes?" he asked charmingly with a lift of his eyebrows. 

"For you two? Definitely. You must be the Winchesters. Come on in." She gave them both a flirty smile that had Sam shuffling his feet and looking embarrassed. Honestly, sometimes Dean didn't know how they were related. 

"Sorry for using the back door, ma'am," Sam said earnestly, looking for all the world like an overgrown puppy that expected to be scolded for peeing on the shoes. Pamela snorted. 

"No problem. Dudley Do Right hasn't exactly been subtle, camping out front of the house like that." She tossed her head towards the front of the house and Sam's expression went from abashed to startled. Dean sniggered at her description and ignored his brother's questioning look. 

"I take it Bobby called," he said as he entered the kitchen. He glanced around automatically, but it all looked very ordinary. 

"Yeah. Didn't say much though and nothing to make me expect that kind of attention," she said with a flick of her head toward the front door. Dean frowned and headed into the front room of the house to take a peek. 

"We're so sorry, ma'am. We should go," Sam told her earnestly as Dean passed him. Pamela grinned at Dean as she checked out his ass as he walked around her, and snorted at Sam. 

"You're cute," she told him. "But there's no need to worry about me. Want some coffee?" 

Dean came back into the room, still frowning. As he'd suspected when he'd seen the station wagon, it was that jackass Kubrick out the front. Far from the brightest bulb in the pack, he was fanatically loyal to Gordon Walker and a religious nut. How the hell did Walker get his crew into Collection? His stomach twisted. There was something very wrong going on. Was this operation even sanctioned? Shit. He huffed, mind churning with ever more worrying scenarios. 

"Want us to do something about him?" Dean asked the psychic. Sam looked shocked and Dean rolled his eyes. He wasn't talking concrete shoes here, for god's sake. The kid needed to chill. 

"Leave him be." Pamela placidly poured three mugs of coffee and Dean looked at her more closely. She certainly seemed competent; reluctantly he nodded. 

Sam shifted from foot to foot like a little kid wanting to use the bathroom. Dean barely repressed a snigger. "If this guy finds out you've been talking to us..." 

"Don't you worry that pretty little head of yours, cutie," she soothed. "So how about you tell me what's going on?" 

* * *

"So Professor Singer sent us here. I think he was hoping you might be able to find out why the demon was in Mom's house that night," Sam finished earnestly. 

"I'm not sure what you think I can do. I see auras and can act as a medium..." Pamela shrugged. 

Sam jumped on that. "Could you contact Mom? Maybe she'd know something?" He ignored the scoffing sound from his brother and fixed a pleading glance at Pam. 

"Whoa there cowboy. Hold your horses. You can't just conjure up the dead willy-nilly and chat to them. It doesn't work that way." She was shaking her head and Sam felt his hopes fade. 

"Well how does it work?" Sam tried to hide his impatience. He felt like he was just inches away from answers. 

"Only those who haven't moved on can be reached and them only sometimes. Often the ones who stay are the victims of violent crime and incoherent with rage. They just don't make any sense." Pamela waved a hand in a _what can you do?_ gesture. Sam frowned. 

"But people try?" he asked cautiously. Pamela grimaced. 

"The police do, obviously. How better to find out who committed a homicide than ask the victim? It rarely pays off though. Communicating through the veil is hard and the message is often garbled." She sounded genuinely contrite that she couldn't give a more positive answer. 

"I'd imagine killers watch TV too," Dean interjected. "CSI must have taught them about salting and burning bodies." His brother was lounging on the dining room seat, drinking a second mug of black coffee. 

Pam nodded. "The organized and professional ones, yes. I'm sorry, Sam, but it isn't likely to work." 

Sam felt like he could scream. He choked it down. "She died violently. She mightn't have moved on. _Please_. It must be worth a try," he begged. 

"Sam," Dean started. 

"No! You don't want to because you didn't get on with her. But I loved her and I need to know," Sam snapped. He had to know. It was all he could think about. 

Dean's pinched look told Sam he'd gone too far but he didn't care. "It's not that, Sammy," Dean told him with obviously forced calm. 

"Then what is it?" Sam challenged, belligerent. 

Dean sighed, rubbed a hand down his face then shook his head and looked away. "I just have a bad feeling about this," he said softly. Sam scoffed and turned back to Pam. 

"Can it be done? Do you need to be where she died or something?" Sam realized vaguely that making demands of the psychic wasn't likely to endear him to her, but he couldn't stop himself. 

Pam studied Sam. He gave her his best begging face, forcing himself to shut up. The wait was agonising. Pam rubbed a finger over her lips and exchanged a quick glance with Dean that he couldn't interpret. "Okay," she sighed. "It's not my specialty, but I'll see what I can do." Sam was surprised at how quickly she could set up the apparatus necessary for a séance and startled that she chose to do so in the kitchen. 

"I normally do this in the front room, but with our Peeping Tom out there, here's safer," she explained when he asked. 

Sam knew that lingering here wasn't safe for any of them, but it was too late to back out now. He felt tightly strung, almost vibrating with impatience as Pamela completed her preparations. 

"What name did your mother go by?" Pamela asked as she gestured them to sit. 

"Mary Winchester," Sam said. Dean looked surprised. 

"I thought she'd gone back to her maiden name," he commented. Sam shook his head. The divorce had been moderately amicable as such things went, but Mary had never changed her name back. Sam had never really thought about it, but it now struck him as odd. He set the thought aside as Pamela sat down. 

She lit the pungent smelling candles and they sat around the table holding hands. Dean had been quiet and disapproving, which Sam ignored. He watched Pam intently instead. She fell into a trance easily and started calling for Mary. 

"Mary Winchester. Mary Winchester. Your sons call to you. Mary Winchester." She repeated the call, interspersed with words Sam recognized as Latin for several minutes before abruptly breaking off. Pam's brown eyes flew open and she caught a startled breath. 

"What is it?" Dean asked the obviously shaken woman. 

"Did she answer?" Sam demanded. Pam shook her head. 

"No." She was reluctant to continue. 

"Please," Sam begged. "What happened?" Pam studied him. 

"You might not like the answer," she warned. 

"It doesn't matter. Please!" He wanted to shake the answers out of her. 

Pam sighed. "I didn't see anything. Just a yellow mist." 

"Yellow?" Dean asked sharply. She reluctantly nodded. Sam was confused. 

"I smelled sulfur and could hear faint screams. Not a woman's," she hastened to assure the shocked brothers. "More like... a chorus." She shivered. "I've never had anything like that happen before." 

Sam felt sick. "Oh God," he moaned. 

"Hey!" Dean remonstrated. 

"Sam!" Pam got his attention. She'd pulled herself together but was still pale. "It's not what you think. Given how she died, that could be interfering." 

"Really?" Sam had to hang onto hope. The thought his mother might be in Hell was too much to bear. 

"Yeah. I've never looked at that type of death before. It's probably why no one tries." Pamela was trembling slightly with exhaustion. 

Sam felt a little better, but it didn't escape his notice that his brother hadn't joined in the reassurances. Instead, he was staring into the distance, half chewing at his lip. 

"Dean?" His brother slowly brought his focus back to Sam, frowning. Sam suddenly felt like he was being examined by a stranger and sat up straighter, unsettled. 

Dean shook his head. "She couldn't have been sent to Hell by the demon, Sam," he said. He hesitated a moment before adding, "Not unless she made some kind of deal with it." 

"No! Absolutely not!" Sam was utterly certain. 

Dean nodded agreement, but still looked pensive. Sam wondered if he was trying to figure out what Mary might have gotten in a deal and his anger reared up. 

"Stop it, Dean! You don't want to think of her as the good, decent, loving person she was, so you're trying to make her out to be the bad guy. Don't. It's not true!" 

Dean's expression closed completely and Sam shut up. Dean hadn't actually said anything and he was jumping down his throat. It wasn't fair and Sam knew it. 

Dean turned to Pam. "Can you read Sam's aura? He was in the room when Mom died. It might have touched him somehow." 

"What the hell?" Sam exclaimed. "What are you accusing me of?" 

" _Nothing_ , Sammy. Will you calm the hell down, man? What's wrong with you?" Dean was exasperated. 

"It's _Sam_! What's wrong with _me_? I drank holy water, passed tests - you said so yourself - but you think I'm ... You think I had something to do with Mom's death?" 

Dean was shaking his head, but it was Pam who intervened in the argument. 

"Hey. Everybody chill. Sam, I already read your aura. I read both of you. I do it to everyone who comes to my door." She shrugged unapologetically. 

Sam's anger cooled and unease coiled through him. "What did you see?" he reluctantly asked. 

She pursed her lips in a moue and sighed. "There _is_ a shadow. A faint one. I'd need to soul-read you to see what it's attached to." 

"What does that involve?" Dean asked as Sam reeled from the revelation. 

"I put my hand on that manly chest and it'll be done in a few shakes." Pam's attempt at levity earned her a smile from Dean, but Sam was too upset to do more than stare. 

"Okay," he said shakily. 

Pam gave him a softer, more reassuring smile than her earlier cocky leer and he felt a little steadier. She placed her right hand on his sternum, after a quick rub over his pec and a wink that surprised a shaky laugh out of him. 

She closed her eyes and stepped back after a moment, her expression pensive. Sam ducked his head down, trying to see her eyes. 

"And?" he asked anxiously. She glanced at Dean and then back at him. 

"There is a whiff of brimstone," she said slowly. "But I can't get a clear read." Sam staggered back a step in shock. 

"Hey! It's okay!" Pamela's sharp voice acted like a slap. Sam stared at her in disbelief. How could any of this be remotely okay? 

"Look, it's small. Barely there. It's not directing your actions. It has no influence over you. Your choices are your own," she emphasized. 

"And it's new?" Dean asked. Pam was looking puzzled. 

"Yeah, but... it feels old. Very old. I don't get it." She shook her head. Dean frowned in confusion. 

Sam just felt very cold. 

* * *

They'd left soon after that, not wanting to risk being detected at Pam's house. She'd looked troubled as they went, though trying to mask it with brash cheer. Dean rewarded the effort with one of his more charming smiles, but felt as distracted as she looked. 

They'd been driving for an hour in silence. Dean hadn't even put any music on. He admitted he was hurt at Sam's attitude towards him and the way he kept ripping into Dean. He kept telling himself that the kid was under tremendous stress and didn't really mean any of the garbage he kept spewing. 

He tried very hard to believe that. He also tried very hard not to think of all the implications of Pamela's visions. 

"The FHB wants me for some reason. It can't be for nothing - they must suspect something about me. Maybe the demon did something to me. I gotta know, Dean." 

Sam's announcement startled Dean out of the concentration he was putting into simply driving. 

"Did something like what? You drank holy water, you don't react to silver. You're _fine_ , Sam." Dean repressed a sigh. It felt like repeating a mantra, but Dean didn't know what else he could do to reassure Sam. He'd tried a few subtle tests of his own, but the kid was entirely human according to all of them. 

"So why are these guys after me? What do they know about me that I don't?" Now that was a good question. The team had been there awfully quickly. Dean's eyes narrowed. 

"I don't know Sammy. I wish I did." Some kind of tip-off? From who? Of _what_? 

"Can they really go after someone like this? I thought there were legal procedures. A warrant they had to get?" Sam was looking at him but Dean kept his eyes on the road. 

"Yeah it's called a Writ and it's signed by a judge. It states the reasons for the operation," Dean told him absently as he kept turning possibilities over in his mind. The pieces to the puzzle simply didn't fit. They were missing crucial information somehow. 

"So without one this would be illegal?" Sam sounded hopeful and Dean dragged his mind back to their conversation. 

"Sure. But how do we find out?" Could he ask one of his friends to look into it without putting them on the radar? It was worth a thought. 

"Maybe Professor Singer knows someone who could check? He might know some people there." Dean tilted his head from side to side, though tickled by the automatic respect Sam infused Bobby's title with. Bobby himself broke his students of the habit of using it pretty damn quick. 

"We could ask. But if he doesn't want to put them at risk, he'll say no. If he does, you can't push it. He was good to us and it'd be shitty to repay that with a visit from the goon squad." Dean wasn't sure his warning would be enough to stop Sam if his brother thought he could learn something. He'd shown himself rather careless of other people's feelings when he wanted something and Dean's tolerance was running out. 

Sam nodded agreement though, to his surprise. Dean eyed him warily. For a kid who'd had a meltdown like the one he'd had at Pam's, he was awfully calm now. Dean didn't trust it for a moment. What was going on inside his little brother's head? 

* * *

Sam was battling horror and guilt. He'd tried to brush aside his misgivings about his part in his mother's death, but Pamela Barnes had brutally shoved them in his face. 

He didn't know the details yet, but it was obviously his fault somehow. The dreams were involved, that was clear. 

Maybe it would be best if he _did_ give himself up. He really didn't want anyone else to die. 

On the other hand, Dean had been right when he'd said that they wouldn't be able to get to the bottom of what was going on if Sam was in a cell - or worse, dead. 

They needed to find out _why_ a demon had been in that house in Lawrence that night. 

But how? 

* * *

They stopped at a busy chain store diner when it got dark. They'd been driving more or less aimlessly since they'd left Pamela Barnes' place. They were now in Laramie, Wyoming. Once Sam had brought his attention back to his surroundings, he'd demanded to know where they were going. Dean's shrug and casual explanation that he had no particular destination in mind had caused Sam to lose his temper. He wanted answers, _dammit_! Dean hadn't fought back - actually seeming _relieved_ by his outburst, which confused Sam - agreeing to look for a place with WiFi so they could do some research. 

Dean gave Sam cash as they walked in, dodging a harried woman shepherding three boisterous boys out. 

"Here. So you can buy your own damn food." 

Sam rolled his eyes and accepted the money rather ungraciously. He hated being reminded that he had nothing now, that he was dependent on his brother's charity. He slouched over to a booth against the wall where he could look out of the window at the uninspiring parking lot. The past two days were weighing heavily on Sam. Too many shocks in too short a time. He'd always liked his life to be ordered and sensible. Nothing that was happening to him now was either. 

He glanced around at the truckers sitting at small tables at one end of the room and the few families at the other. Sam felt disconnected from them and their everyday cares. It was like he'd been yanked from the world and put back slightly askew. 

He resolutely refused to think about what had happened just before they'd pulled in. The nosebleed had stopped and he'd discarded the bloody tissues. The echoes of pain, though, were still rippling through his head if he moved it too fast. _The images of Dean, beaten and bloody, falling to the ground, possibly dead._ Sam swallowed hard, closed his eyes and pushed them away, gripping the table tightly with his good hand. 

"Hey," Dean greeted softly as he dumped food bags and soda cups on the table. More interesting, from Sam's point of view, given the roiling unease in his stomach, was the laptop bag he unslung from his shoulder. Dean must have gone back to the car to bring it in. The Biggerson's chain had free WiFi for customers, one of the first chains to introduce it. Sam glanced up at his brother and shied away from the concern on his face. 

Dean eyed him as he unzipped the bag. "Eat something. You look awful." Sam sighed, but didn't have the energy to engage in a battle of wills with Dean right now. He looked in the bag closest to him and was surprised to find a sandwich and salad. He'd been expecting a greasy burger and fries. It didn't look too bad, so he nibbled at it. It was tastier than it looked and he dug in, suddenly hungry. 

Dean booted the machine while Sam blinked at the weird decals that decorated the lid. "Drink some of that," Dean ordered, "while I look over the newspaper reports." Sam glared at his brother but he sipped the soda. He was kinda thirsty, but he wasn't going to let Dean know that. Where did he get off treating Sam like he was twelve? 

"You okay, dude?" Dean asked, worried. "You seem a little spacey. Not to mention quiet." Oh yeah, he hadn't said anything since they'd arrived. No wonder Dean was eyeing him. Sam gave himself a sharp mental shake and cleared his throat. 

"Sorry. Just a bit tired. The headache's eased off a lot though." Sam played with his cup. He'd explained the nosebleed and splitting pain in his head as a migraine to his freaked brother. It didn't feel right to lie to him like that, but how else could he explain it? Sam had no idea what had just happened to him and was praying fervently that it never happened again. He cringed as his brother reached for the touch pad with greasy fingers. 

"Here, let me do that," he offered, grabbing the machine before his brother could object. "You eat. What are we looking for?" 

Dean shrugged. "I have no idea. I thought we could go back over the newspaper reports in case something jumps out." Sam raised his eyebrows, but didn't object. It was improbable they'd find anything, but he knew they needed a direction. He hadn't been able to convince Dean to head to California and seek help from his friends. While he understood Dean's reasoning, he thought his brother was being paranoid. Maybe if this search turned out to be a bust, he'd raise the idea again. 

Sam looked through the news reports Dean had bookmarked for half an hour without finding anything new. Something had been niggling at him though. Sitting back, he realized he hadn't found the reference to sulfur Dean had mentioned. Thinking back he realized Henriksen hadn't mentioned it either. Huh. 

Dean had gone to the bathroom, so Sam resolved to ask him about it when he returned. He didn't like that they might be chasing a shadow instead of focusing on what really killed their mother. Sam smoothed his bangs back behind his ears. Who was he kidding? Pamela Barnes had made it crystal clear that a demon was involved. 

Abruptly, Sam closed the browser. He really didn't want to think about any of this anymore. Sam noticed a photo folder on the desktop and decided on a whim to take a peek at his brother's life. Maybe it'd take his mind off things for a few moments. 

Seeing a picture labeled 'Dad', Sam opened it. John was there, older, grayer and grinning at the camera, his arm slung around an older woman Sam didn't recognize. Sam's breath stuttered. There was an affection between the two of them that suggested they were a couple. Sam was stunned. He hadn't really thought about his Dad's life, the possibility he might have moved on after the divorce, found someone else. His mom had seemed okay with being alone and he'd just assumed John was the same. 

_Were_ they a couple, or was Sam reading far too much into a single picture? He felt kicked off balance yet again. 

Sam glanced up and noticed Dean weaving his way back around the busy tables. Hastily he clicked to close the slideshow, but when he looked down he saw he'd accidentally opened another picture. Staring at it, things suddenly gelled for him. 

Dean was muddy and shirtless, grinning widely while an older black man was shooting him a resigned, yet affectionate, look. It was the pendant around Dean's neck that captured and held his attention though. His blood chilled. It was a Hunter's pendant. Dean belonged to the FHB. The very organization hunting him. 

It suddenly hit him. All that bullshit about blood tracking was a smokescreen. No wonder they kept finding him when one of their own was driving him around. Sam's tangled emotions suddenly converged and his fury exploded. He slammed the laptop shut and stormed out, leaving a confused Dean standing at the table. 

The Impala was parked a little away from the cars, on the side near the trucks. Sam stalked over to it before turning on his brother. 

"You're a hunter, aren't you?" Sam demanded. 

Dean blinked, caught off guard. "What makes you say that?" 

"Is that a yes?" 

"I suppose so. Does it matter?" 

"You lied to me!" 

"You never asked, actually." 

"So why didn't you tell me?" Sam yelled. 

"Because it didn't matter, Sammy. All it means is that I have a better chance of protecting you. From the FHB. From the demon that killed Mom." 

"Really? Is anything you say even true? Was there ever a demon?" 

"Of course!" 

"Prove it. No psychic bullshit. I want evidence." 

"Evidence? What kind of evidence?" 

"Whatever it was that made you think Mom was killed by a demon." 

Dean threw up his hands. He gently tossed the laptop onto the back seat and then reached into his bag and pulled out a sheaf of paper. 

"This," he said icily. Sam took them and startled when he realized it was a printout of an FHB report. 

"Where the hell did you get this?" he demanded. When he saw it contained the scene report of his mother's death he stared at Dean. " _When_ did you get it?" Dean rolled his eyes and Sam realized that was why he'd been late to the motel in Lawrence. Why he'd insisted on not fleeing immediately when he knew Sam was hunted. 

"You idiot!" Sam raged. "How could you be so stupid?" 

Dean looked supremely unimpressed. "Right. 'Cause being completely clueless would have been so useful to us. We needed to know what was going on Sam. That report had at least some clues to what's going on." 

Sam stared at him, still angry. "Why should I trust you, Dean?" he demanded. 

Dean had been holding onto his temper but now he lost it. "Trust _me_?" Dean yelled back. "What about you, Sam? You ditched school and went home but won't say why. While you're there a demon kills Mom, but leaves you alone. A psychic says your aura is tainted. You have migraines and nosebleeds you don't explain. You're keeping secrets, Sam. Why the hell should I trust _you_?" 

Sam reared his head back, nostrils flaring, lips thin. That cut far too close to the bone. Sam lashed back. "I should have known better than to think you cared about Mom dying. This is just a job to you, isn't it?" 

That sent Dean right over the edge. "How dare you! You don't get to judge me, Sam. You've been giving me nothing but crap since we met. You don't know anything about my life, but you've been judging me on assumptions you've made about me anyway. You know _nothing_ about how I feel." 

"Maybe I don't want to, Dean. Maybe I know enough already! Stay away from me!" 

Sam stormed away. He had the money Dean gave him earlier and they were at a truck stop so he could hitch a ride west. He grabbed his duffel bag from the Impala and stalked off towards the trucks parked nearby. He'd go to California. He had friends there. When he'd talked to Zach after leaving Lawrence his friend had told him he'd be welcome to visit. Sam knew law professors there too. With their help he could get his life back. 

In the back of his mind, where the strange waking nightmare he'd had was still worrying him, the thought also stirred that Dean would be safer far from him too. 

* * *

_Shit_. Dean hadn't thought Sam would take his profession well, but this was way worse than he'd dreamed possible. Dean watched his little brother stalk away across the parking lot, stunned. 

"Son of a _bitch_." Dean was equal parts furious and hurt. He knew the kid was confused and hurting and all that crap. He _did_. But where the hell did Sam get off spewing accusations all over Dean in that condescending, self-righteous... Dean forced a deep breath. Then another and another until he'd calmed to merely seething. 

He didn't want to let go of the anger but his training on that point had been rigorous. An angry hunter was a dead hunter. There were too many things out there that could - and would - use it against you. So Dean calmed himself down enough to actually _think_. 

He was disappointed Sam had walked away and hurt by his distrust, but if he was honest with himself, he mostly felt bitter at Mary for undermining Sam's opinion of him. He'd done a lot for the kid over the years, even sacrificed a few things to help him out and he seemed oblivious. Dean didn't think Sam was ungrateful so much as kept in the dark. He seemed completely clueless about Dean's life. 

Yeah, Dean had left home, and could understand Sam was hurt about that, but he had reasons, though Sam didn't seem interested in hearing them. John had talked to Mary every now and again, passing on updates and getting some in return. As far as he could tell - and admittedly there had been little time for chit chat since they'd gone on the run - Mary had withheld those updates from Sam. No wonder the kid felt abandoned by his brother, couldn't believe Dean gave a shit about him. No wonder he didn't think being brothers actually meant anything. Dean didn't think he could forgive his mother for that. 

Once he cooled down and started thinking about what to do next, Dean was torn. He could keep investigating on his own. That could possibly include using Sam as a stalking goat. Dean winced at the idea, but had to admit to himself that it could be easier to get information if eyes were looking in Sam's direction rather than his. Of course he didn't want Sam actually found. 'Showing' the Impala occasionally would nicely muddy the search for Sam. But it would mean lost time as he kept the wolves at bay. Dean shook his head, dismissing the idea. 

Alternately, he could head for Palo Alto. Sam had been pretty set on heading there, against all advice, so that was almost certainly where he was headed. He had no money apart from what Dean had given him and Dean doubted he knew how to - let alone would - hotwire a car. That left hitchhiking. Dean shuddered at how exposed Sam was leaving himself by doing that. If he ever got stuck somewhere with no ride out Walker's team would get a bead on him. 

The advantage though was that he wouldn't be taking a direct route, making him harder to track and predict. That would let Dean get ahead of him. He could scope the situation out, neutralize any threat. The kid had no idea who he was up against. Dean frowned: he'd experienced Walker's crazy before and wouldn't forget it in a hurry. 

Dean nodded to himself. He would watch his little brother's back. That's what big brothers did, even if the little brother was too stubborn to accept it. Dean threw the rest of his meal in the trash and headed for the Impala. God knew he could do with some sleep after the last couple of days, but there was no prospect of that yet. Sam was already on the road and he needed to be as well. 

He fired up the Impala and took comfort in its throaty growl, a long-time companion to his life. Dean took a deep breath and headed out. He needed to haul ass to Palo Alto. 

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Seven**

>   
>  Demons: Myth and Reality (Documentary) 

Throughout history, humans have believed in demons. Are demons as common as religion claims? What are they truly capable of? This program will explore the myths and legends surrounding these harbingers of evil as well as exclusive interviews with people who claim to have been possessed and those who exorcised them. 

> _TV Guide, History Channel, April 15, 1997_

> _Nov 5, 2003_

Sam climbed down out of the truck and thanked the driver. He was grateful the guy had been willing to let Sam brood in peace for five hours. Unfortunately, the driver was turning north to Idaho at route 84 and Sam needed to keep heading west. He looked around the parking lot of the truck stop. It was after midnight but there were a dozen rigs in the diner's lot, along with a handful of cars. Slim pickings, but better than nothing. So far luck had been going his way and he was hoping it would continue to do so. 

Sam was hitchhiking to California. He'd decided to ask for the help and advice of one of his teachers there. To find out if what was happening to him was even legal. Yes he wanted to know what had happened to Mom and why, but first he needed to get the hounds off his trail and his life back to normal. 

He also wanted to see his friends again and then the damage to the apartment he'd been sharing. He couldn't believe everything he owned was now gone: his books, his notes, even his clothes. Between the two fires he didn't even have a photo left of his mom. He wondered for a moment whether Dean had one, but that caused the hurt to rise. 

Sam had felt betrayed when he learned Dean was a hunter. It wasn't like Dean hadn't had plenty of opportunities to tell him. It left him doubting everything Dean had told him. The guy at the salvage yard pretending to be a professor, the psychic who Dean could have coached, everything. If it weren't for having that van drive at him in Lawrence, and seeing it later on their trail, he'd even doubt there was an FHB team coming after him. At one point he'd even wondered if all that was staged too, but he couldn't figure out what Dean would gain from that. Sure he'd gone off with his brother instead of staying in Lawrence, but why would that matter? 

It hurt his head to think about. And truthfully, he didn't think Dean was lying about that. It had been ten years since he'd seen Dean and people changed - a lot - but Dean had seemed... himself. Annoying and bossy and just so very Dean. And Professor Singer, despite his unorthodox surroundings, had sounded legitimate. But if it wasn't some elaborate ruse for some unknown purpose, then that left him on the run from some kind of black ops team for an unknown reason. Which wasn't any better at all. 

Sam felt trapped in a web of lies with no way to know who could be trusted. Maybe Dean really had been trying to help him, or maybe not. There simply wasn't a way to tell. Well, he grudgingly conceded, apart from the fact he hadn't been caught at the hospital. Dean's refusal to immediately leave Lawrence, and his longer than expected absence, made sense if he'd gone to get what information he could from the FHB office. About two hours into his journey Sam had reluctantly admitted all of Dean's behavior could be explained in an innocent way. If _innocent_ was a word one could properly apply to his brother. It didn't change his resolve, however. Palo Alto was where he wanted to be. 

Once he'd cooled off he quickly realized the biggest downside to leaving Dean. The money Dean had given him would feed him but wasn't enough to catch a bus to his destination. That left hitchhiking, but he wasn't comfortable sleeping in a vehicle with a stranger, especially with the nightmares that plagued him inviting questions he didn't want to answer. He couldn't stop overnight anyway, even if he could afford it. He had no idea whether he really was being tracked by his blood, but he didn't want to take the chance. 

He needed to find a way out of his situation and the only help he could think of was in Palo Alto. It had to be better than driving aimlessly hoping inspiration would strike! Sam took a deep breath, hiked his duffel bag a little higher on his shoulder and headed for the diner. 

* * *

There was a slender woman with cropped blonde hair frowning at the engine of a car parked near the only street light in the lot. The hood was up and she leaned forward to fiddle with something, giving Sam a great view of her ass thanks to her tight jeans. His eyebrows rose at the sight. A woman alone after midnight at this remote spot was unusual, let alone one dressed like that. He wandered over. 

"Hey," Sam said. She jumped and whirled around to face him. She was young - about his age - and pretty, Sam noticed, and about a foot shorter than him. He took a couple of steps back so he didn't loom over her. 

"You scared the hell outta me!" the woman accused him. 

"I'm sorry. I just thought you might need some help." Sam didn't know anything about engines, but was willing to take a look. It was a guy thing. He shifted a little from one foot to the other, hoping it wasn't anything complicated. 

"No, I'm good, thanks." She dropped the hood back down and wiped her hands on a handkerchief she threw onto the back seat. Sam hid his relief. 

"Uh, so where you headed?" He'd struck out in the diner, the truck drivers either uninterested or heading in completely the wrong direction. It was unlikely a woman would give a guy, especially one as big as he was, a lift, but he had run out of options and a clock was ticking at the back of his mind. 

"No offense, but no way I'm telling you," she replied, eyebrow raised. "You could be some kind of freak. I mean, you're hitchhiking," she said with a toss of her blonde head at the duffel bag on his shoulder. 

Sam smiled uneasily. "My car crapped out on me and I need to get to California. I'm short on cash so I thought I'd try to catch a ride." He shrugged self-deprecatingly and tried to look harmless. 

"Why? What's in Cali that's so important?" She leaned, hip shot, against the driver's door and crossed her arms. 

Sam glanced away and took a breath. It still wasn't easy to say. 

"My Mom died a couple of days ago," he told her bluntly then studied the trucks on the other side of the lot to avoid seeing any pity. When he glanced back, the woman looked shocked. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. Sam shrugged, uncomfortable. "So, there's no one that could help you get there, hey?" He'd have bristled at the intrusive question, but she sounded thoughtful, like she might be considering helping him. 

His friend Brady was a truly outrageous liar at times. When Sam once asked him how he got away with it, Brady had laughed. "The heart of a good lie is a truth," he'd told Sam. Brady had also told him that it was important to keep things simple. Let people draw their own conclusions. Sam had been rather surprised to find it worked. 

"No. It was just Mom and me," he told her. It had been the truth of his life for years. Now Mom was dead and Dean had blown back into his life. Resentment surged. Did Dean think he could just waltz in and take Mom's place? She'd been his confidant and champion through his teen years. Where had Dean been? 

He looked up, drawn from his thoughts, as the woman extended her hand to Sam and he shook it automatically. "I'm Meg." 

"Sam," he replied, relieved. 

* * *

It turned out Meg was taking Route 50 west and Sam could ride with her as far as Carson City, Nevada. From there it shouldn't be hard to get rides to Reno and Sacramento and, ultimately, Palo Alto. It was absolutely perfect and Sam was grateful something was finally going his way. He might even be able to get a friend to pick him up partway. Sam rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out what day it was. Friday? There were classes. 

"God", he suddenly thought, "my interview is Monday. I can still make it." It felt utterly surreal, like that was no longer his world. He suppressed the sense of dislocation, blaming it on the lack of sleep. Sure he'd been napping while Dean drove, but it hadn't been restful. Sam tried to distract himself. 

"So, are you on vacation or something?" he asked, interested in why she was headed for Lake Tahoe. He'd spent a week there a couple of years earlier with college friends during Spring break. He hadn't been interested in the casinos, but there was some nice hiking around the ski resorts. 

Meg snorted. "Yeah, right. It's all sipping Cristal poolside for me." He laughed with her. Her car was serviceable rather than modern, and far from luxurious. "No. I had to get away from my family." 

"Why? If you don't mind my asking," he tacked on hastily. She hadn't pushed him for his story after he'd blown her off earlier and he appreciated that. 

She shrugged a slender shoulder, a study in nonchalance too thorough to be real. "My dad left years ago, when I was still a kid. My sister too, once she was old enough. She called me up out of the blue a few months ago, wanting to 'get to know us' again. Said she regretted leaving. Mom's over the moon to have her back, won't hear a bad word about her, but it turned out she was lying about a lot of stuff. Now its all tears and drama and I was the bad guy for exposing it all and, well, it was all too much. I had to leave, get my head on straight, y'know? So this is me, taking charge of my life." She laughed deprecatingly. "Huh. The things you tell strangers, hey?" 

"No, it's okay. I understand. My family wasn't so different." Understatement, he thought. It was eerie how similar their stories really were, even if he couldn't admit it. Sam's life was out of control and he hated that feeling with a passion. He wanted to take charge of his life, get it back on track. 

"Really? So you've got a psycho sibling out there somewhere?" she joked. 

"I dunno about psycho, but yeah," Sam admitted. "Haven't seen him in years," he added, looking out the window. 

"Well, here's to families," she said cheerfully. "Can't live with 'em, can't shoot them and leave their bodies in a ditch." 

Sam laughed. 

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Eight**

>   
>  Lawyers will start presenting arguments in the Supreme Court today that state laws against homosexuality based on the Constitution are invalid. The argument revolves around Amendment 11 which requires the government make all effort to eliminate the unnatural from the United States.
> 
> "This amendment is well understood to refer to the supernatural," said Greg Harris, a lobbyist for BiNet USA, which brought the case. "It is the basis of the existence of the Federal Hunting Bureau. To use it against citizens in this way is clearly wrong." The case hinges on the definition of "unnatural" and several state's Attorneys-General are arguing that homosexuality meets it, citing biblical sources. __
> 
> New York Times, Tuesday August 6, 2002 

Gordon Walker surveyed the ruins of a small apartment building in Palo Alto, California, with a curled lip. He'd sent Kubrick to Pamela Barnes directly on getting a ping on Sam Winchester in South Dakota, knowing Dean considered Bobby Singer a friend and that the demonology professor trusted the psychic. Walker shook his head at the idea of _anyone_ trusting a psychic: if they could bend goddamn spoons then mere thoughts were nothing to them. He carried black obsidian to keep them out of his head and made damn sure his team did too. How could you know you weren't being manipulated otherwise? They looked human after all. 

He nodded to the fourth member of his team as the guy pulled up in his nondescript station wagon. Kubrick was loyal and obedient but put his enthusiastic and verbose faith in a God Gordon didn't believe in. It was grating. Still, he wouldn't screw up a simple surveillance op. It had been a long shot and Walker recognized that so he hadn't been too surprised when Kubrick had reported no contact. He'd recalled Kubrick and pointed his team at California. 

It was a calculated gamble. From what he could glean, Sam Winchester was a studious figure, well-liked by his fellow students. Walker shook his head. It was exactly what you heard from the neighbors of serial killers. "He was such a nice boy. Quiet. Polite." The gullibility of people never ceased to amaze and sicken him. Sheep waiting for slaughter. 

Gordon was counting on Winchester finding it hard to resist seeing what was left of his home. The timing was incontestable: Sam Winchester had not been responsible for the Palo Alto fire. Whether he had an accomplice or a competitor, he'd be drawn back to find out what was going on. The wildcard, though, was his brother Dean, who knew how hunters thought and could advise his brother accordingly. He bit back the snarl that wanted to erupt. Too unprofessional. 

Gordon was still fuming about what had happened in South Dakota. Supervisory Agent Jodie Mills was the head of Collection and had made no bones about letting Gordon know she was unhappy he'd been placed in her section. The fact she would be out of the loop when he was called on for ops by higher ups obviously stuck in her craw and Gordon couldn't blame her for that. He _did_ blame her for interfering at Bobby Singer's place. This wasn't her op, but he wasn't permitted to blow off a direct order either. 

How the hell did a nobody like Singer know Mills anyway? Gordon shook his head, irritated. Sure the guy had a rep for knowing more about demons than pretty much anybody on the planet, but he was just a college egghead. What did someone like that know about the realities of chasing down evil? 

Dean Winchester, though green, should know better though. Gordon believed the young hunter had been blinded to his brother's true nature. He knew how that felt - he hadn't wanted to believe his beloved little sister had been turned by a vampire either. But he'd hardened his heart and did his duty. Not that the FHB knew anything about it. They had stupid rules about turning down people who'd lost close family members to the supernatural, claiming they were too likely to be about vengeance. 

Damn straight they were! They were the best people for the job! Not bleeding heart college liberals who wanted to give the monsters a chance. People who'd faced true evil and knew first-hand what it could do to a family. People who knew it had to be stopped, by any means necessary. People like Creedy and Kubrick. It had taken him several years to find the like-minded in the FHB's field agent ranks and pull them together. Now they were a solid team. One that would be ripped apart and dismissed if the very agency that hired them knew their true family histories. 

Sometimes he really couldn't believe what the country had come to. 

Walker hoped Dean Winchester would do the right thing when confronted with the reality of his brother's evil nature, but he doubted it. Dean was too soft on the monsters to be a true hunter. He'd proven that with his interference when Walker tried to wipe out that vampire nest in Montana. Bleating about innocent victims trapped and needing to be rescued. He didn't get it. There _were_ no innocents. Not in a world where monsters roamed. 

There were no shades of gray in hunting - it was beautiful in its clean edges of black and white. A purity of purpose no other occupation offered. Collateral damage, even the lives of civilians, were _nothing_ in the face of the mission. It frustrated Gordon Walker to no end that people, even those in the FHB, couldn't see that. 

He took a deep breath. Patience wasn't his strength, but he had enough to wait out Sam Winchester. He'd come. And then Walker would cleanse his taint from the world. 

It was _necessary_. 

* * *

Sam's good luck had deserted him in Reno. So close to Sacramento, but he just couldn't find a lift willing to take him that way. People were warier than they had been in the Midwest, or more self-absorbed. Either way, people hadn't been willing to talk to him, let alone offer a lift. 

He'd had the money to get a bus, but found there wasn't one for another six hours. A clock ticking in his head, Sam had given up and grabbed the lift north that was offered. It was in the wrong direction, but he needed to stay on the move. 

The middle aged trucker had a Texan drawl and was chatty. Very chatty. Sam suspected he was on uppers as that much perkiness after a long night drive seemed unnatural. He had to concentrate to give the appropriate responses which helped to keep his thoughts from Dean. 

Waving the guy off at the truck stop in Johnson Park was a relief and Sam headed into the diner for coffee. He needed to find someone traveling west on 299 to get to Redding on route 5 and get back on track. Or find someone going back to Reno. Whatever. He was almost dead on his feet and his mood was spiraling down into moroseness. The anger that had fueled him at Dean's betrayal had burned out and the ashes were bitter. 

Watching the trees of the Lassen National Forest go by his window, Sam had realized he hadn't listened to Dean's side of the story. Just like Dean had accused, Sam had judged him guilty on the basis of what he'd been told by his mom. He hated to think it, but she wasn't an unbiased witness. Sam sighed. It was just another screwed up thing in his life. 

He couldn't contact Dean. Although he'd used Dean's phone, he hadn't taken the number. Sam supposed, if desperate, he could find the number for Professor Singer's salvage yard and ask him, but he didn't particularly want to answer the older man's inevitable questions about why he wasn't with his brother anymore. 

Sam chewed on his lip. Actually, he'd used Dean's phone to contact his friend, Zach in Palo Alto. Maybe his friend would still have it in his phone? Dean had contacted their father to organize their mom's funeral after all. He'd need to call about that. 

Meg had been bitter about how things were with her family and decided she was better off without them holding her back, but Sam wasn't ready to cut his own out of his life. Not yet. He was starting to realize he needed to find out more about them. To get their stories and try to discover the truth. To answer the questions he was now thinking. He rubbed his forehead. He sounded like a lawyer, even to himself. How screwed up was that? 

Maybe he'd been hasty in his suspicions, but he was exhausted and stressed. It was understandable that he wasn't making the best decisions, much as it pained him to admit it. Sam sighed. He'd get to Palo Alto and talk to his friends. He trusted their judgment - up to a point - and would get their take on it. He'd have to be careful to not get them into trouble too, but it should be do-able. 

Sam felt better now he had that cleared up in his mind. 

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Nine**

> In 2002 42,815 people died in highway crashes in the US, compared to 1,352 deaths from supernatural causes. Despite this, people are more diligent about wearing protective charms than wearing seat belts. This public lecture by expert Len Skoberg of the Institute of Risk Management will look at the psychology of risk and explain why the public are so poor at effectively judging the risks they encounter in their daily life. 
> 
> _Smithsonian Lecture Series, 2001_

Sam finally arrived in Palo Alto late afternoon, many hours after he'd hoped to. Rides in the right direction had been amazingly hard to come by and Sam was exhausted by worry and lack of sleep. He'd hoped to immediately talk to one of his professors, but none had office hours this late on a Friday and Sam just wanted to scream at all the delays. 

As he crossed Crown Quadrangle, wandering whether Zach might be in the library, he was hailed by a familiar voice. 

"Sam! Hold up!" Sam turned to see - Brady hurry towards him. "Where have you been man? Everyone's been worried about you!" Sam gave him a wan smile. 

"Sorry man, the last few days have been a nightmare," he said vaguely. He was surprised when Brady draped an arm over his shoulder and started walking him over to the street. Brady was only a couple of inches shorter than Sam, but he wasn't a touchy-feely type. 

"I can imagine," Brady said sympathetically. "Look, we all want to help. We've got a bit of a collection together so you can get back on your feet. Zach's offered to let you crash at his place." Sam blinked back unexpected tears at his friend's thoughtfulness. Zach and Brady had never gotten along, so it was also really good to see them pulling together over this. But none of them knew what had happened in Lawrence and he didn't want to get them on the government's radar. 

"Thanks," he said sincerely. "But I don't want to put anyone out." 

Brady waved that away with his other hand. "You aren't. Now what's happened to you? How'd you do that?" he pointed to the cast on Sam's hand. 

"Oh, um, it's a long story. Are we headed to Zach's? I can tell everyone together." 

It would give him time to come up with a story to satisfy them. God, why hadn't he thought of that? He hadn't told his friends he was going home. To them he'd just up and disappeared for a week. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting an exhausted headache. 

"Hey, that's fine, man." Brady sounded even more concerned and Sam tried to give him a smile to let him know he was okay, but from Brady's expression it hadn't worked too well. 

"Thanks," he said. 

Brady just snorted and unlocked his car. Illegally parked, Sam noted with some amusement. That was Brady all over. Sam got in and closed his eyes. He wasn't sure how long he dozed, but it felt like they'd been driving too long to get to their friend's off-campus apartment. He opened his eyes and looked around. The sun was just setting and he didn't recognize where they were. A spike of adrenaline bolted through him. 

"What the hell?" Sam turned to his friend. 

"Exactly," Brady replied. Then his right hand shot out and knocked Sam senseless. 

Sam came to slowly. He was slumped in an uncomfortable metal chair, but it wasn't until he tried to straighten and stretch that he realized he was tied up. He blinked, confused. He had a killer headache and his jaw hurt. 

Brady gave him a light slap on the cheek. "Rise and shine, Sammy." 

"What?" Sam looked around. 

They seemed to be in a large shed or small warehouse. There were crates along one metal wall and skylight windows around the roofline. The ceiling was high - about two stories - and the floor a stained and dirty concrete. It looked vaguely familiar, though Sam wasn't sure why. A single fluorescent light was on above him, softly buzzing. There were candles on the ground in front of him, a small brazier and chalk markings that made no sense. Unease became alarm. It looked like some kind of occult ceremony. 

"I don't understand," Sam told his friend, trying to struggle against the ropes pinning him. "What's going on?" 

He gave up the struggle and stared at his friend, confused. Brady had gone off the rails in his sophomore year, dropping out of pre-med, hitting the drugs and sleeping around. Sam had stuck by him and helped him get back on track, but now he feared Brady had relapsed. Or worse, that he'd turned to the supernatural. 

"Are you back on drugs? It's okay, man. You beat them before. You can do it again," he told his friend earnestly. 

Brady howled with derisive laughter. Chills ran down Sam's spine at the sound. Brady couldn't know about the Collection team could he? Was he turning Sam in? Did he know about Lawrence and think Sam had something to do with it? Surely he knew Sam better than that. 

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Brady chortled. "You really don't get it, do you? Brady hasn't been home for quite some time." 

Laughing at Sam's confusion, he leaned forward and blinked. Sam's breath caught as Brady's eyes turned solid black. Another blink and they were back to normal. 

"Now do you get it?" 

Sam was stunned. 

"What are you?" he shakily asked. 

"You really don't know? Tsk," he, it, taunted. "I'm a demon." Sam startled and it laughed again. "Yes, I've been wearing your friend for quite a while now. Had to get close to you and he was your bestest friend." 

It leaned in and Sam gagged from the stench of sulfur it suddenly released. 

"BFFs to the last," it mocked. 

It was easier to think of this... thing... as an it. He could deal with the loss of his friend later. 

"Why?" Sam coughed. "Why me?" 

It ignored his second question. Circling around him, chills went down Sam's spine whenever it was behind him. 

"You spoiled it all Sam. You were supposed to fall in looooove with sweet little Jessica. Plan the china and pick out the dog's name," he sing-songed. 

Brady leaned down and got in Sam's face. Sam tried to rear back in revulsion as the creature's eyes again turned a solid, depthless black and it continued in a hoarse whisper. 

"And then I'd get to burn her in front of you." His stomach turned and Sam swallowed heavily, horrified. 

It leered at him for a long moment, relishing his reaction, before standing back up and wandering away a little. 

"But no, you wanted to be good," it mocked. "Wanted to wait." 

It wandered back and casually slapped Sam hard across the face, making his teeth rattle. "And so I wasn't allowed to touch her." 

Sam's ears were ringing but he could be distantly grateful for Jessica's sake. He absently licked the blood dribbling from his split lip. 

"But," it giggled obscenely. "There was nothing to stop me destroying everything else." 

_Just things_. Sam repeated the mantra he'd been telling himself since he'd seen the ruins of his apartment building. _There was nothing there but things. And things can be replaced_. Not like his mother. 

"Why... Mom..." he panted. 

"Well _something_ had to make you angry," it pouted repulsively. 

It leaned in again and Sam turned his face away, trying to lean as far as possible. 

"And no one will like it when Sammy's angry," it whispered. 

It stood up again and Sam slumped, still not understanding. It sounded like a Hulk reference and nothing was making any sense. He flinched as the demon patted his head, then painfully pulled his hair. 

"Dad said it would work," it mused then added brightly, "and it has!" 

"Dad?" Sam was completely at sea. 

" _My_ dad. What, you think demons don't have families too?" 

The thought was just too out there for Sam to process, so he just blinked. 

"You can call him yellow-eyes," it told him casually. The demon then leaned in again, staring into Sam's eyes. "My daddy killed your mommy," it sing-songed softly. 

_That_ Sam understood and he threw himself forward against the ropes, suddenly furious. "Why?" he screamed. 

The demon stood up, a sneer of contempt on its face. 

"And to think you're Dad's favorite. The Boy King," it sneered. "Anointed at six months and still dribbling today." It turned to the occult paraphernalia. "Well, it's time to call Dad." 

The main door to the warehouse crashed open. 

"FHB Collection Team," an armed, black clad figure shouted as he ran in. "Stand still." 

Just when he thought his day couldn't get any worse, it did. 

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Ten**

> The Montgomery County United Pantheistic Fellowship welcomes the public to its annual Summer Solstice Festival on June 21, 2003. This event will be held in the park bordering the woods on Green Street from 4pm to midnight. Families welcome! Activities include a jumping castle and pony rides for children. A banquet will follow the sacrifice of a calf at sunset. 
> 
> The Montgomery County United Pantheistic Fellowship is an inclusive group for all pantheistic worshipers. Greek-Roman worship occurs every Saturday evening. Non-pantheon-specific services are held on the last Saturday of each month. 
> 
> _Montgomery County Newsletter, June 2003._

Brady turned and contemptuously flapped his hand. 

"I'm busy," he said and the man was flung back out of the door he'd stormed through. 

As he turned back to Sam, however, he was hit by jets of water that made him scream. Vapor poured off his skin, accompanied by a sickening sizzling sound. Two more men, wearing backpacks that threw holy water like napalm, had come in a side entrance. Another followed them in and headed for Sam. Any hope he had of being immediately freed was crushed when instead a gun was pointed at his head. 

The thrown man limped back through the main door and quickly started drawing something in chalk on the concrete. Remembering the Professor's lecture, Sam guessed it was a Devil's Trap. The stream of holy water stopped and the demon managed to throw one of the men back before it was manhandled into the trap, where it harmlessly screamed imprecations at its captors. Suddenly it fell silent, watchful. 

Sam slumped, relieved. The whole thing had taken less than three minutes and was strangely anti-climactic. 

"Exorcise it, sir?" one of the men asked eagerly, fingering the nozzle on his spray pack. A little holy water dribbled out. 

"Not yet," came the cold reply. "I want to question it first." The man, presumably their leader, frowned at his subordinate. "And move back before you drip on the chalk." The chastised man backed up a few steps. 

The leader turned his attention to Sam. 

"I'm Gordon Walker, FHB," he announced, looking Sam over. 

"Thank God," Sam sighed. "This guy... demon... he kidnapped me, brought me here." 

Walker's lip curled into a sneer. "Don't play games with me. You're Sam Winchester and this is Tyson Brady. You've been best friends for years, yet you claim you had no idea he was possessed? I'm not an idiot, boy." 

"How would I know if he was possessed?" Sam demanded. "It's not like you guys tell the public about demons." 

Walker's smile was cold. "Exactly. So how do you know about them? You clearly recognize what just happened." 

Sam blinked, biting back the response _my brother told me_ , not wanting to get Dean into trouble. The hesitation was a mistake, because Walker jumped all over it. 

"Admit it," Walker demanded. "You were the one responsible for the fire in Lawrence, just like that one," he nodded to Brady, "was responsible for the fire here." 

Sam's anger exploded. "My _mother_ died in front of me and you think _I_ did it? How dare you!" he yelled. 

Walker looked amused, which made Sam even angrier. "Sulfur was found at the scene and so were you. Case closed." Sam couldn't believe the man's logic. 

"So that makes me a demon? What kind of idiot are you?" Walker hit Sam hard, winding him. Sam shook his head, panting. "I'm _human!_ Talk to that agent. Henricksen. He tested me!" Sam protested. 

Walker gestured at him, unimpressed. "Yet here you are, consorting with a demon." Sam was speechless with incredulity. 

"Consorting? I was _kidnapped_!" Sam shouted, incredulous. "I'm _tied up_. How is that _consorting?_ " 

"That's what you want us to believe, but after Lawrence I know better," Walker growled. He drew himself up. "By the power vested in me by the United States Government, I proclaim you a threat to humanity." Less formally, Walker sneered, "Die demon scum." He raised his gun and Sam could only stare in utter disbelief. 

* * *

A loud shot came from the side entrance and Walker gave a yelp of surprise, dropping his gun as he flinched away. He swiped at his head as he wheeled around to face the intruder. Sam didn't see any blood, but Walker was in pain. He strained to see what was going on. 

Sam was completely stunned to see Dean stalking into the warehouse, mouth thinned in anger, racking a shotgun in warning. The two Collectors carrying the holy water backpack tanks backed up, but the fourth one drew a terrifyingly large knife and stepped closer to Sam. 

Gordon didn't try for his dropped gun, but snarled at Dean. "You have no right to interfere, Winchester." 

"You have no right to kill my brother," Dean snarled back. 

"I'm doing my job, Winchester. Remember the job? Defending civilians. Wiping monsters from the earth." He sent a death glare at Sam, who shivered at Walker's fanaticism. The Collector's self-righteous belief was iron-clad. 

"My brother isn't evil," Dean averred confidently. Sam felt a bolt of affection for him. 

"You've been deceived by him. Seeing what you want to see," Gordon said dismissively. 

"All I see is that you're batshit insane if you think Sam is a monster," Dean growled. Sam winced. That wasn't going to go down well. 

Gordon nodded to the knife guy, who threw himself at Dean. Sam's stomach flipped in fear. Dean's attacker was taller and heavier than him. Dean didn't look fazed, however, turning the rifle to use the barrel to deflect the knife. 

After a flurry of moves that had Sam blinking at his brother's skill, Dean sent the knife flying and dropped his opponent by driving the rifle butt into his head. He opened his mouth to call a warning, but Dean was already turning, clearly anticipating Walker's attack on his back. Dean was off balance though and lost the rifle in the grapple. 

An exchange of punches followed. Dean was slowly but steadily wearing Gordon down and Sam felt a moment of hope when a particularly vicious blow staggered Gordon back a couple of steps. Suddenly one of the others loomed behind Dean, swinging a piece of timber before Sam could shout a warning. Dean gave a cry and dropped to his knees. The other two leaped and grabbed his arms, pinning him face down on the concrete in front of Sam. Dean groggily struggled, but froze when Walker pressed the muzzle of his handgun into the back of his head. 

Sam blinked and wanted to throw up. _He'd seen this._ In his nightmare just before their fight. Walker would pull the trigger, face twisted in hate. Dean's eyes would go blank and he'd drop to the concrete, a spreading pool of blood under his head. Sam started to hyperventilate. He panicked. _Nononononono._ A tearing pain twisted through his brain, leaving him panting. He blinked the sudden fuzziness from his vision and stared in disbelief. 

Gordon was somehow across the room now, stumbling back onto his feet. 

Dean flung himself upwards. The two holding him had loosened their grip in surprise, staring at their leader. He twisted out of their hold and stood between Sam and a furious Walker, who was going for his gun. 

* * *

The demon suddenly laughed. Dean had simply noted it was there and contained when he entered, focused on Walker and the threat to Sam's life. He'd almost forgotten about it in the ensuing fight. From the startled reactions around him, so had everyone else. It clapped, slowly, applauding Sam. 

"You've embraced your heritage. Good boy. Now it's _my_ turn." 

Dean froze, not understanding what that meant, but then the ground trembled. A thin crack suddenly opened in the concrete, running across the lines of the Devil's Trap, breaking it. 

_Shit_. He'd assumed this guy was Stunt Demon number one, but apparently it'd been foxing. From the stunned expression on Gordon's face, he'd been taken in too. Dean didn't waste time in enjoying the Collector's discomfort but headed straight for Sam, dropping to a crouch by his brother's side. That much power and everything - and everyone - was going to start flying. If Walker's team had any sense, they'd start re-hosing the demon with Holy Water, instead of standing and gaping. 

Dean cut Sam loose and urged him out of the chair and down into a crouch beside him. The demon was ignoring them, though, in favor of playing with Walker, Kubrick and Creedy. Dean tugged on Sam and headed them the hell out of there while it was occupied. 

Sam lurched awkwardly and Dean felt no better thanks to the battering his ribs had taken, but his little brother followed him without question. Sam was flinching from the fighting and shouting, but they made it to the door unimpeded. 

Dean knew Gordon would believe they were in with Brady because of this, but that couldn't be helped. Sam's safety would always come first and Gordon had been the greater danger. And if three hunters couldn't overcome a single demon when they were prepared to meet one... well they didn't deserve to be called Collectors. Not that they deserved to be anyway, Dean thought with a curled lip. 

Dean led Sam down the street to the black van the Collection team had arrived in. Sam was jittering, shaky from both shock and nerves, when Dean stopped by it. 

"C'mon Dean, we've got to go," he urged. 

* * *

Dean looked at it thoughtfully, nodding as he made a decision. He shook his head."This'll only take a minute. We need to get them off our backs," he panted. 

God his ribs ached. Still, this needed to be done. He tried the sliding van door, fully expecting to have to break in, but was surprised to find it unlocked. 

"Huh," he huffed, then braced himself to climb in. 

"What?" Sam asked from the footpath, looking around nervously. "What are you looking for?" 

"I'm not sure," Dean replied absently. 

He wrinkled his nose at the smell of unwashed clothes. Slobs he thought disdainfully. He picked up a pencil to poke around. He wouldn't admit to hoping to find a labeled vial of Sam's blood sitting out on the small pull-down table. Obvious and easy. He sighed and looked up front in the driver's compartment, but saw nothing that might be used to track his brother. Rubbing his hand wearily over his face, Dean realized he'd have to slow the chase down another way. 

Shit, there was going to be hell to pay for this. 

He popped the gas tank cover from the driver's compartment, groaning as his ribs protested the leaning over. Grabbing a can of accelerant from under a bench seat, he started squirting it around the van. He chortled when he put extra on the dirty laundry pile. Really, he was doing the world a service there. He paused to rip the sleeve off a shirt, then painfully climbed out. The whole thing had taken no more than three minutes, but Sam looked wrecked from nerves. 

"Hey." Dean gently clapped him on the shoulder. "Car's that way," he pointed. "We're going to have to hurry." 

* * *

Sam just stared at him blankly and Dean gave him a push. 

"Go on." 

Sam frowned but started ambling in the right direction, glancing back at him. 

Dean shook his head. It was a really bad sign when Sam went all quiet and compliant. They really, really needed to find somewhere to crash. The adrenaline was wearing off and they were both all but out on their feet. He stuffed the shirt sleeve into the gas tank and lit it, pausing to see if the material would catch. Once he was satisfied, he threw the lighter back inside the van. There was a satisfying whoosh as the interior ignited. 

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam asked incredulously, having stopped to watch. Anyone would think the kid had never seen a bit of petty arson before. "That's government property!" 

Dean shook his head at his brother's screwed up priorities. 

"C'mon. Hurry!" he hustled his brother away. 

Sam caught onto the urgency and they unsteadily jogged for the next corner. Suddenly there was an almighty BANG and the van ripped apart. Instinctively the brothers ducked and threw themselves around the side of the brick building they were beside. 

Dean glanced back around the corner at the carnage, his eyes wide open. 

"Huh. Musta been running on fumes," he commented, eyebrows arched in surprise. He turned to his little brother, who was looking a bit unsteady on his giraffe-like legs and shook his head. "C'mon, let's get out of here." 

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Eleven**

> Debate continues about the implications of one of Vatican II's most unexpected outcomes: the schemata that declares that the souls of those turned by supernatural creatures go to Purgatory when they die. Formerly Purgatory was considered to be a place of necessary purification which human souls would pass through on their way to Heaven. Those who suffered a supernatural transformation, even innocently, were considered damned to Hell. Under Vatican II, however, the souls of humans who have been made into supernatural creatures against their will are believed to be held in Purgatory forever. 
> 
> _Catholic News Weekly, March 1965_

Dean had pulled on Sam's good wrist and said that they needed to get the hell out of Dodge. Sam agreed wholeheartedly and followed him willingly to where the Impala was parked. 

He hadn't processed everything that had happened yet and wasn't sure he could for a while. It was all just too messed up for him to grasp. What was important was that Dean had come for him. Despite everything Sam had thrown at him, Dean had come. Better still, Dean had _survived_. 

"I'm sorry," Sam said after they were well clear of the scene. Dean glanced across at him. "For doubting you," Sam clarified. "And... for saying the stuff I did," he added after a moment. 

He looked over at his brother, finding it hard to meet his eyes, but he set his chin and did it. He'd yelled some pretty hurtful things at his brother and Dean had proved his distrust wrong. Apologizing was the least he could do. 

"Don't mention it," Dean said, taking it as the thanks it was. 

Sam was just glad he hadn't been brushed off with a "whatever". That had been Dean's favorite word as a teen and riled their mother like nothing else. Probably why he'd said it so often, Sam reflected, but wisely kept the memory to himself. It wasn't the time for that conversation. Soon, perhaps, but not yet. 

It was quiet in the car, but it actually felt comfortable. Like what had happened in that warehouse had forged a bond between them. Something that went beyond the mere accident of birth that meant they were called brothers. Sam mulled it over and decided he liked it. 

Sam stared out of the window for a while before turning to his brother. "So what do we do now?" Dean glanced across at him, assessingly. 

"How's your wrist?" he asked. "Do you need a doctor?" 

Sam looked down at the cracked cast and shook his head. It ached, but didn't _hurt_ so he figured it was fine. Everything else was bruising and shallow cuts as far as he could tell. Nothing felt broken. 

"I don't think so," he replied. "It doesn't feel worse." He gestured with the cast. "And everything else... well it hurts, but it's bearable." Dean made a humming noise, looking thoughtful, but nodded, taking Sam at his word. 

"Okay then. We'll find somewhere to hole up for the rest of the night and get some sleep," he decided. 

"Won't they find us?" Sam wasn't sure he had the energy left to care at this point to be honest, which was ironic given how hard he'd fought to escape. Sam closed his eyes for a moment, then looked over at his brother. He badly needed some time to rest and get his head on straight before he could figure out what to do next and he was grateful Dean seemed to get that. 

"I kinda destroyed their van," Dean pointed out with a smirk. "They won't be going anywhere for a while. And if the sample they were tracking you with was in it... well, all the better." 

He didn't look like he was holding out too much hope on that score, which Sam understood. Their luck just didn't seem that good. 

"But..." Sam felt guilty. Dean was going to be in big trouble for what happened. Maybe even lose his job, if he hadn't already. Not that Sam had asked for his help. But... he was so damn grateful for it. 

"No buts, Sammy. I'm wiped. So are you. We need to get some rest and come at this with clear heads." Sam really didn't have an argument for that. Dean had driven the whole way to Palo Alto while he'd hitch-hiked. He had to be _exhausted_. 

"Okay," Sam sighed. 

Dean looked over at him, surprised, then nodded. 

"Right. Then we'll figure out what the hell is going on, okay?" Dean assured him grimly. "Together." 

He gave him a pointed glance and Sam nodded his agreement, 

before smiling and relaxing for the first time in three days. Maybe longer. Dean would tease the life out of him if he knew, but things just felt _right_ now he was back with his brother. Like he could get through anything so long as they tackled it together. Even the mess his life was in. 

Maybe Dean was psychic. "What are you thinking about, Samantha?" he asked, also seeming to relax and wind down. 

Sam snorted at the thought. "That you're a jerk," he replied, lightly using an insult from their childhood. He held his breath. Dean glanced over at him and shook his head. 

"Bitch," he said, fondly. Sam couldn't help his grin as Dean gave the expected response. It felt like another piece slotting into place. Yeah, it'd be tough for a while, but he'd be all right. 

He had his big brother at his side. 

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

**Epilogue**

>   
>  Anne Rice's ethnography Interview with a Vampire made the New York Time's best-seller list this week. Rice, a Ph.D. candidate in Anthropology at San Francisco State University, said she'd decided to popularly publish the work in an effort to educate the public. Debate has subsequently raged about the scholarly merits of the work, written in a distinctly prose style.
> 
> _Washington Post, June 16, 1976_

Bobby Singer stared at the news coverage of a protest outside of the Washington FHB office and wondered where the upswell of sympathy for monsters was coming from. The Movement for Extra-Human Rights was noisily protesting the laws that mandated corporeal monsters be put down when captured. Their charismatic leader, a businessman named Dick Roman, was earnestly arguing to the reporter that werewolves and vampires and the like were victims whose condition could be humanely managed. 

Bobby shook his head. At least Roman was avoiding the fringe line that said progenitors should be protected, that they were just acting instinctively. He snorted. Thankfully most people recognized that as BS. Dogs who bit people were put down. Though calling it that was a point of contention in its own right for the Movement. 'Put down' was a term used for animals and Roman was passionate in pointing out that the monsters had been - and in some cases still were for some of the time - people. 

The reporter seemed sympathetic and it was a line resonating in the media. But Bobby felt that was, at the very best, true of only werewolves. But rugaru? Skinwalkers? Wendigos? Vampires? None of them were remotely human anymore. 

Looking at the statistics a friend at the FHB had passed him, the number of attacks for a number of classes of corporeals had been noticeably dropping over the past couple of years. The FHB's line was it was due to better detection and enforcement. Bobby frowned. The numbers on the enforcement side of the ledger showed the numbers there were actually about the same as always. 

So why the drop? It could be environmental pressures or just one of those lulls that sometimes happen, but put together with the public campaigns popping up, there was another possibility. A frightening, barely believable possibility. 

The monsters were organizing. 

Getting sympathy would be the first step to getting laws changed. Reduce the effectiveness of the FHB and the monsters would be able to scrabble a solid foothold into the world. 

_Paranoia? Or are they really out to get us all?_ Bobby wondered. 

The FHB's response, if ignoring the protests and refusing to comment on the issues was a response, wasn't the worst thing they could do, but it was far from helpful to their cause. Bobby wasn't a fanciful man - demon hunters in particular needed to be serious minded and focused - but he was struck with the feeling of events closing in around him. 

Storm clouds were gathering and he was starting to dimly see the shape of events. A feeling of hopelessness washed over him for a moment before he shoved it away. Things were starting to look grim, if he were right and he was poorly placed to fight on any front. 

That wasn't going to stop him trying. Bobby sighed and headed for his library. He had work to do. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my betas heavenli24, who found my non-Americanisms and ambigious grammar, and my husband Anthony, whose dislike of extraneous adverbs and unerring eye for poor pacing and clunky dialogue made this a much better story. Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> Thanks too to my wonderful artist alchemise. As a first time Big Bang participant I couldn't have hoped for a better person to work with. Please visit her on livejournal and show her the appreciation her talent deserves!
> 
> And finally, thanks to wendy and thehighwaywoman for putting in all the hard work needed to run such a huge challenge every year.


End file.
